


Quest 11: Sliske's Endgame

by FishiesGoneFiction



Series: Of Gods and Men [11]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25345183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishiesGoneFiction/pseuds/FishiesGoneFiction
Summary: The eclipse is nigh. The end of Sliske’s games draws near. All the gods gather for one final race for the Stone, taking them through a shadowy labyrinth of the devious Mahjarrat’s design. Not only does Jahaan have to survive the trials Sliske sets out for them, but he has to compete against every major deity in Gielinor. Then, and only then, will he have a shot at ending Sliske’s madness once and for all...
Series: Of Gods and Men [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1340662
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Into the Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my full series 'Of Gods and Men', and on my page can be read in full (or as far as I've posted). I'm also posting it in smaller chunks as each 'quest' can sort of be standalone, but read as part of a wider story as well.

Of all the people Seren thought she would have an audience with on that day, her brother was the last she expected, and certainly the last she wanted. But Zaros was insistent, and while every advisor around Seren urged her to turn him away, Seren sensed an importance in his visit that required her attention. If he was to reveal some small modicum of his plans to her, at least Seren could try and keep his intentions in check.

Zaros was a stain in the perfectly sculptured crystal palace. He was a blot of darkness, a symbol of corruption in an otherwise flawless city. For miles around, the icy white walls shone brilliantly in the sunlight, emerald roofs glowing and twinkling, sapphires shining from the windows. Zaros was a shadow, a vacuum of insincerity and manipulation that Seren spent her entire life trying to escape from. Now, with five days left until Sliske’s endgame, she allowed him into Prifddinas, a city he had been barred from visiting since he first stepped foot on Gielinor.

At the top of the Tower of Voices, the two siblings that were nearly as old as the universe itself conversed to the backdrop of chirping birds and the sound of distant harps.

Seren shook her head firmly. “After what you did... after what you made me do? How can I trust you?”

“You cannot,” Zaros admitted. “What you did… what I made you do, it is unforgivable. We are both damned by it. But it was a necessity. The only solution to the damage you had wrought.”

“She was our  _ mother _ ,” Seren’s voice cracked at the term, the wound as fresh as ever.

Zaros disagreed, “No. She was our creator. I know enough of my study of mortals to see the difference between the two. If they had been your elves, would you have even hesitated?”

“That's not fair…”

“Little is. We both know enough to be certain that the universe does not recognise fairness. Regardless, I come to you not in the hope of reconciliation, for I know that is not possible.”

Seren couldn’t help but laugh, a mirthless sound full of indignation. “No. It really isn't.”

“I come in the expectation that you recognise the danger here,” Zaros continued, “That we cannot stand in opposition. Not now, while there is too much at stake.”

Seren nodded, grimly. “The Catalyst. It cannot fall into their hands.”

“No. It would be catastrophic; the damage they could do. It could wake the elder gods prematurely.”

“But even if it did, perhaps that is the way of things,” Seren argued with despondent acceptance. “Perhaps it is Gielinor's destiny.”

“You do not believe in destiny any more than I, Seren,” Zaros countered. “You know that events must be guided, orchestrated; things happen because they are made to happen. Not because the universe has decreed it.”

“Perhaps,” Seren may disagree with Zaros’ methods, but some of his philosophy did align with hers, though she was reluctant to admit it. The divergence was that Zaros believed  _ he _ should orchestrate everything. Seren believed him the last person who should be in charge of the destiny of others. “But I will not let you claim the Stone, Zaros.”

“As long as the Catalyst is out of the younger gods’ hands, that is all that matters,” Zaros affirmed, resolutely. “I do not intend to tear the world apart like they would. But our plan for the Stone is secondary - what is imperative is claiming it.”

“And how do you intend to go about that?” Seren queried, still wary. “Sliske has something planned during the eclipse. He is an unpredictable being, one that is difficult to plan against.”

“Sliske’s game is a formality,” Zaros stated. “He is foolish to deign to think he has any modicum of power or control over us. The agreement I made with Zamorak and the others will ensure the outcome sways in my favour, but only if I have your assistance, sister.”

Jahaan knew he needed allies, but despite being the World Guardian, they were few and far between. In fact, Jahaan could count all those he genuinely entrusted with his life on one hand.

Azzanadra wasn’t an option - he’d undoubtedly be standing beside Zaros, and understandably so. Wahisietel no doubt would refuse to even get involved in his brother’s twisted games. Ozan was-

Jahaan violently shook his head, forcing the man from his thoughts.

That only left one name that sprung to mind.

Short of dying and coming into contact with one of his avatars, Jahaan figured the best place to start looking for Icthlarin would be in his temple in Sophanem, Menaphos' sister city. Before Ozan had helped repair relations between the neighboring cities, legitimate migration was off limits. Fortunately, the bridge connecting the sister cities was open to the public once again.

Jahaan entered the back room of the temple to find Icthlarin and Death already in a heated discussion.

“Icthlarin, think about what you are suggesting,” Death implored, a pained weight in his glowing cyan eyes. “You do not have the powers the other gods possess. This is reckless! They could destroy you!”

“They could try,” Icthlarin countered. “Do you have such little faith in me?”

“In you I have the greatest faith. It is in them that my faith wavers. They cannot be trusted, and they will show no mercy.”

“And I would not expect them to, but this is a debate for another time. At present, we have a guest.”

Icthlarin and Death turned to the doorway to see Jahaan standing there, sheepishly. “Uhh… was I interrupting something?”

“Death is just concerned for me, my friend,” Icthlarin explained, a sad smile on his features. “He worries that I will not return from Sliske's game, but I must go regardless. It was I who brought Sliske and the Mahjarrat to Gielinor, a mistake that I must do everything I can to correct.”

Shaking his head clear of the cobwebs such memories brought forth, Icthlarin regarded Jahaan with a steady resolve. “Death and I have come to an agreement. Neither of us will seek the Stone for our own personal gain. We have no true need for it, and we cannot adequately protect it from all of the other gods. If we are to claim it, we shall find a way to keep it buried, away from all the gods, and Sliske, once and for all. Will you join us in this pledge?”

Smiling thinly, Jahaan nodded. He wanted nothing more than for the Stone to be buried for all eternity, and while that didn’t work so well the last time they tried it, hopefully with the help of an actual god they would stand a better chance of success.

The dark shape of the moon had stolen its way across the bright desert skies, capturing the brilliant clear cerulean and replacing it with thick, heavy purple, dripping through the skies like ink. The ominous atmosphere was suffocating, the tension of the impending event palpable.

As darkness overwhelmed the skies, Jahaan knew Sliske’s endgame had begun.

The meeting point was just east of Nardah, a small desert town north of Sophanem. Thanks to Icthlarin’s teleport, Jahaan didn’t have to face the magic carpet experience once again. Luckily, the desert was much cooler on this day, for he brought with him heavy armour and a rucksack full of provisions to prepare himself for the upcoming trials Sliske would no doubt unleash. Brushing some hair from his eyes with the back of his gloved hand, Jahaan and Icthlarin crossed the final distance to the meeting point.

As they did so, Jahaan wanted to get something off his chest while he still had the time. Before long, the game would begin, and they’d all be lost in the chase for the Stone. “Hey Icthlarin?” he began, quietly.

Curious by the odd tone, Icthlarin turned to him. “Yes, friend?”

“I’ve decided,” Jahaan began to smile now, content and wistful, determined and ready, akin to the faint flickers of fire in his eyes. “Let’s be honest, I’m probably not going to survive this. If I die, don’t take me to an afterlife. Get rid of my soul. I… I think I’ve done all I want to do here. It’ll also be one last way to piss Sliske off, knowing that I threw away the soul he wants so badly.”   
Jahaan forced himself to chuckle, but it was grim and hollow. He struggled, acutely aware now more than ever of his own mortality.

Icthlarin’s brow furrowed; he stopped walking. “Are you sure, Jahaan? You might not be in the best place to think clearly.”

“No, I’ve thought about this a lot,” Jahaan maintained, and it was the truth. Ever since Ozan… Jahaan realised he’d had his fill of life. He’d had so many adventures, lived so much, but all the good was behind him now. There was nothing to look forward to. Besides, he didn’t want to tie himself down to a deity in the afterlife. He was just… done. “I’ve made up my mind.”

Already at the meeting point were Marimbo and Brassica Prime, two deities whose absence had, in all honesty, gone pretty much unnoticed in the past years of Sliske's games. Even at the original meeting at the Empyrean Citadel, they'd refused to attend, finding such affairs tedious and not worth their time. Jahaan wondered why they'd finally decided to show up now, of all times.  _ Have they been playing possum all along? Do they really have a plan to get the Stone?  _

Once he realised what he'd just considered, Jahaan broke out into a chuckle.  _ And your winner is… a drunk monkey and a divine cabbage… _

To break him out of the amusing thought he was lost in, the air crackled, energy and light reacting against each other as a crash of white lightning teleported Armadyl and a handful of his aviansie warriors into the area. Soon afterwards, a blue sphere faded into view, and once it disappeared, Saradomin had arrived, flanked by a band of imposing White Knights and Commander Zilyana. The blue-skinned god smiled wryly at his bird-like counterpart.

“Ah, Armadyl. I should have guessed you would be one of the most eager to arrive.”

“I merely see no point in being 'fashionably late'. We all want this over with as quickly as possible,” Armadyl countered, giving a friendly nod of greeting to Marimbo, Jahaan and Icthlarin.

A quick pulse of green energy teleported Death next to Icthlarin. “Are you certain about this, Icthlarin?” he checked, voice low, but apparently loud enough for Saradomin to hear.

Saradomin clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Yes, Icthlarin, should you really be here? Don't you have duties to attend to? You must know the Stone will never be yours.”

“Do not pretend to comprehend my duties Saradomin,” Icthlarin replied. “Your attention only focuses inwards. I serve a greater purpose.”

“What arrogance! You dare pretend to know my will?”

During this, Seren, Zaros and their respective entourages teleported into the fray - Seren with her elves, and Zaros with Azzanadra and Char. Seren arrived in a wisp of blue particles, while Zaros came in a storm of purple energy.

In an attempt to calm their tensions, Armadyl stepped forward, his arms stretched between them in a gesture of peace. “Gentlemen please, there is a time and a place for this argument once the Stone has been claimed.”

At that moment, Zamorak teleported in from a sphere of red energy, followed by Hazeel, Moia and Lord Daquarius.

Eyes narrowed, Armadyl added, “On second thought, if we must channel our anger somewhere, I believe the perfect target has just arrived.”

“Try it,” Zamorak spat, rounding on the winged deity. “It's been so long since I've had the pleasure of watching an avianse burn.”

“I'LL KILL YOU!”

“Yes! Armadyl, together we can destroy him once and for all!” Saradomin cheered, his followers’ hands reaching for their weapons in preparation.

“And give Sliske exactly what he wants?” Seren pointed out. “He wants us to fight. He wants to turn this into the next God Wars.”

“To destroy each other now would serve no purpose except for Sliske's amusement,” Zaros concurred. “Calm yourselves and be rational.”

“Zamorak needs to pay for his crimes!” Armadyl maintained, his voice dripping with bitter hatred.

Then, a mysterious voice floated around them.  _ “Yes… Armadyl. He should pay. Strike him down now. Kill him. Vengeance could so easily be yours…” _

Easily, Zamorak clocked the voice’s origin. “Fuck off with your baiting, Sliske. Show yourself and get this over with.”

_ “Oh well, if you insist…” _

From black lightning, Sliske teleported into the area, his arms waving outwards in a grand gesture of welcome, though with a cockiness only he could attempt to pull off.

Instantly, Jahaan felt his throat go dry, the air being sucked right out of him in the presence of Sliske. Eyes flashed with cinders; he wanted to be sick. He wanted to take out his dagger and slash that cruel smile off his face once and for all. He wanted to run, take off into the desert and never look back, but he felt a gravity pulling him down, a weight fusing his feet to the sand beneath him. Jahaan wanted to look at Icthlarin for reassurance, at anyone or anything to distract him from Sliske’s pull.

Sliske’s canary-coloured irises shone out of the dark recess of his hood, attaching themselves to Jahaan’s emerald eyes. It was fleeting, but Jahaan could have sworn he saw a slight upturn of Sliske’s lip, a cruel yet sincere smile meant only for him. Swiftly, it was replaced by the mask of manic joviality he used to greet the rest of the crowd. “Welcome, welcome! Oh, it's so very good to see you all here. Well, to be honest, I rather hoped to see a few less of you, but we’ll make of the situation what we can. Now, before we get onto the main event, please, a round of applause for those of you who actually followed the brief and  _ killed a god _ . You know, as you were  _ meant to _ .”

He gestured towards Armadyl, his smug, sing-song voice carrying his words. “Armadyl, a round of applause to you. You were the first to really embrace this game. The way you decapitated Bandos… exquisite! Bravo, bravo!”

“I didn't do it for your game, Sliske,” Armadyl growled in response.

“Oh no, of course not. You murdered a god for peace, love, justice, blah, blah, blah…”

Then, his expression darkened severely as he turned to Seren. “You, dear, dear Seren. You had the greatest kill of them all, didn't you? Matricide. You took the life of your very own mother… our mother, Mah, who dreamed us all into existence. Part of me hates you for that. Odd isn't it? That I should care, that her death should matter in the slightest? And yet the sting is there. That slight knot in my stomach, that dull pain in my chest... I mean, bravo! You have done what so few others have achieved…” his eyes traced the crowd, finally settling upon Jahaan as he finished, “You... hurt me.”

Seren took a deep, extended exhale. “You can stop this madness, Sliske. Call off this game. Let this end.”

Sliske laughed, a bitter cackle. “And ruin everyone's fun? How could I do such a thing? I made a bargain, and one must stick to their bargains.”

Stepping forward, Zamorak sneered, “I’m not much of a team player, but what’s to stop us all setting aside our differences and making toothpicks out of your ribcage?”

At this, Sliske let out a hearty laugh. “I suppose nothing, except for the fact you’ll never find the Stone without me. And that’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? Ah, except we're  _ not _ all here. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce our latest contestants... the dragonkin!”

From the darkened skies, a fierce cry pierced through the tense air, with the swooping of heavy wings to follow it. The sound grew louder, nearer, until three dragonkin descended to the ground, the earth shaking as their sharp talons embedded into the dirt.

Eyes wide, Saradomin demanded, “What madness is this?!”

“So this is your grand plan? To attack us all with dragonkin… again?” Armadyl chided, adopting a subtly defensive pose as he regarded the newly arrived dragonkin.

“Come now, don't be so rude to our guests. Kerapac here has shown nothing but the absolute pinnacle of good manners. The dragonkin have every right to be here. After all, the Stone of Jas is sort of their forte.”

“This is outrageous,” Saradomin maintained. “I will not stand for this!”

Sliske called his bluff. “Then leave. No one is forcing you to be here. All of you are free to leave. If you don't want the Stone then you can just totter off home and be free of this…  _ indignity _ .”

Predictably, Saradomin remained quiet.

“Anyone? No? I didn't think so. So let's cut this bluster right now shall we? None of you are going to leave, so-”

“I am,” Brassica Prime, the cabbage god, cut in with defiance and confidence in its low, bellowing tone. “What need has the mighty Brassica Prime for such shiny baubles? Does deliciousness itself not flow through these very leaves? Am I not nutrition incarnate? The Cabbage of a Thousand Truths is like a carrot on a hook, dangling over the cooking pot. You boil yourselves alive to reach it only to find that it is withered and tasteless, leaving only bitter regret on your pallet.”

Marimbo, god of monkeys, spoke up, “Yeah… what leafy said. All this fighting and backstabbing, there's so much more we could be doing instead. You keep your stupid stone, I'm going to go and play more amusing games.”

With that, the two of them teleported away.

Sliske could only stand there in bafflement. “Well, okay… that was… right,” he shook his head, trying to regain his train of thought. “Well, none of the  _ rest  _ of you are going anywhere I assume. So let's discuss what is going to happen next. Below you sits the aptly named ‘Heart of Gielinor’. A focus for the vast anima mundi of this remarkable planet. From its walls I have carved a great labyrinth. To whomever gets through the labyrinth the fastest I will gift the Stone of Jas. A simple concept, but it will become oh so much more...”

Jahaan didn’t like the delivish turn in Sliske’s tone. It spelled trouble.

“Now, we’ve got a lot of strong contenders here - and Icthlarin - so it really is anyone’s game,” Sliske continued, “But I do hope one of the more interesting gods takes the prize. My money’s on Zamorak - think of the chaos you could cause, brother!”

Zamorak jumped to the bait. “Yes, immense chaos! Why not skip the formalities and just give me the Stone now. Save this little game for another time.”

“Nice try, Zammy. But I worked all week on this maze and you’re going to damn well play. Now, there is a big glowing orb in the labyrinth. That’s your initial goal. The first person to reach it gets to deal a significant blow to a contestant of their choice. Be the first through the portal and I will grant you the power to eject the entourage of any god! That's right, they will have to traverse the rest of the labyrinth alone, making them much more vulnerable to, oh I don’t know, perhaps an adversary with a grudge wanting to settle some old scores. Also, thanks to their past accolades in godslaying, Armadyl and Seren have earned themselves a little head start. But don’t let that discourage the rest of you. And with that, let the game begin! Ready… set... GO!”

Not wasting any time, Jahaan rushed into the portal Sliske created, entering the maze. Luckily, he didn’t fall from too great a height and managed to catch himself quite nimbly with a break fall, avoiding injury. For now, at least. Looking around, he was dismayed to see he had been separated from Icthlarin, hoping he’d find him soon so he didn’t have to traverse the maze alone.

The walls surrounding him were an impenetrable dark grey stone composed of jagged rock, towering about fifteen feet above Jahaan, with a murky grey mist forming some sort of translucent ceiling. Blindly, he started to hurry down the long corridors, hoping for a sign, a hint,  _ anything _ that suggested he might be going in the right direction. However, wherever he went, the identical walls stretched away from him as far as the eye could see. In his peripheral vision, Jahaan noticed what looked like the head of a statue, so he went towards it, pleading in vain that it would be the first step to conquering the labyrinth. Just as he approached it, however, the eyes began to glow, and the booming, slick voice of Sliske echoed throughout the vast chasm.

_ “Oh… just one more thing. Those with divine natures may be feeling a little... odd... right about now. That’s because I have removed your divine nature from you. In short, I have brought you all down to the same level. Each of you is now no more powerful than the lowliest of World Guardians. It should be a novel experience for you. But enough of this idle chatter. There is a Stone waiting to be claimed. Go get it.” _


	2. Labyrinth

Jahaan’s strategy of blindly sprinting around the maze as fast as he could didn’t seem to be working so well so far. He’d encountered a couple of puzzle doors that made his head spin, so abandoned them in hopes of something simpler later on. Unfortunately, simpler didn’t come, so he settled into trying to work out the answer to this riddle door he had come across.

Four small masks were connected to the door, each with a different emotion carved into it - happy, neutral, sad and… broken, for lack of a better term. The mask was smashed in places, an emotion indiscernible. Above them read the line,  _ ‘I am not a morning person. Nor am I a mourning person’ _ .

Aside from that, nothing. No hints, no instructions. Jahaan didn’t know if he had to press just one mask or multiple, or what the consequences for a wrong guess would be. No doubt they wouldn’t be pleasant.

Running his fingertips over the masks, Jahaan tried to think as rationally as possible. Not that Sliske was a rational opponent. But no matter how hard he tried, the mental block refused to lift; Jahaan had never been good at puzzles, and the time constraints around the whole labyrinth concept were stressing him out. He had to move faster if he had any chance of retrieving the Stone.

Hitting the door in frustration, Jahaan groaned, “Fuck it!” and pressed the broken mask.

Instantly, he was shot back across the corridor until he slammed into the wall behind him, twitching from the effects of the static shock.

And to make things worse, Sliske’s laugh swarmed the air around him.  _ “Ouch! That had to hurt! Are you okay there Janny? Do you need a time out?” _

Colours danced in Jahaan’s vision as he picked himself up off the ground. He refused to reply to Sliske’s taunts.

_ “How’s the ribs doing?”  _ Sliske asked, pretending to be nonchalant.  _ “Glad to see you walking without a cane now.” _

Jahaan continued to ignore him, breathing heavily to try and drown Sliske out. It had limited success.

But Sliske’s next taunt really tested Jahaan’s resolve.  _ “You know, Ozan’s made himself rather at home in the Barrows…” _

Jahaan twitched, and this time it wasn’t an after effect of the static shock. Back at the door now, Jahaan repeated the riddle over and over again in his head, allowing no other thoughts to enter his mind except for that one line:  _ ‘I am not a morning person. Nor am I a mourning person’. _

Oh, he wanted to bark back at the smug Mahjarrat. He wanted to shout and curse every obscenity in every language he knew. He wanted to threaten him, to tell him in detail every little wound he was going to inflict upon him… but knew that was exactly what Sliske wanted him to do. So, he refused to give Sliske the satisfaction of a response.

Until he claimed the Stone, at least. Then all bets were off.

After Jahaan reaffirmed that to himself, a calm contentment washed over him, and he was able to look at the riddle with fresh eyes.

Once he did that, the solution became obvious.

He pressed the neutral mask and the door clinked open.

Satisfied and with renewed vigor, Jahaan continued on through the maze. Sliske appeared to have grown weary of trying to talk to him, for now at least, which was a huge relief.

When Jahaan rounded the corner, he saw a somewhat giddy Armadyl at the other end of the corridor, avianse in tow. If Jahaan had managed to catch up to him so easily, either the head start Sliske promised was a lie, or Armadyl had severely failed to capitalise on the advantage. But from the look on the deity’s face, he didn’t seem to mind.

Kree'arra was a proud and majestic avianse with gorgeous wings of gold. Jahaan recognised him from way back in Guthix’s cavern; a being like that is hard to forget. Fortunately he didn’t have to fight him then, and hoped he never had to. Those talons were sharp, and the bolts of the crossbow he wielded were even sharper.

Taka’ara was a broader-shouldered and shorter avianse that Jahaan didn’t recognise. Little did he know, Taka’ara was the strategist who helped secure victory over Bandos.

When Jahaan was spotted by the winged deity, he was summoned over with excitement. “Jahaan! Come, come. Talk to me. Did you know that I haven't moulted in millennia? Not a tail feather has fallen from me since I became a god. But this brief interruption of my godhood… it has got me moulting again. The feathers are falling away from my body. I can feel the flesh underneath! At first, not moulting made me feel unbeatable. If time and the elements couldn't ruffle me, then what could? But then I felt like an imposter among my people. I wanted to be with them, but how could I? Their feathers fell with age. I outlived countless generations. Now, I am sharing the company of the aviansie as an equal! Forgive me, it's exhilarating to lose one's power.”

Jahaan smiled, warmly. He’d never seen such pure, innocent joy on another man’s - or bird’s - face. It’d been a long time, too long, since he’d encountered such happiness. The avianse surrounding him seemed warmed by the deity’s glee. “Always seeing the silver lining, Armadyl. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Oh, I am. It may seem like such a little thing, but it has helped subside the misery of Sliske’s little game.”

Picking off one of his feathers, he handed it to Jahaan. “Take this. If I get back to my people, it will be something of a collector's item, and if I don't get back to my people, well, it will be even more desirable.”

“Thanks, Armadyl,” Jahaan took the feather and placed it carefully in his backpack.

Motioning for his followers to continue on, Armadyl turned to leave. “Let's see if I lose every feather in this place. That would make for an unusual return to my people - a bald eagle.”

Zamorak, on the other hand, was a lot less jubilant as he traversed the maze. Being stripped of his divinity didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would, but the tedium of the maze and these ridiculous puzzles Sliske had set out grated on him. No-one had any idea that Sliske had planned out an absurdly large labyrinth for the gods to explore; Zamorak was hoping for something a little more combat-oriented.

As backup, Zamorak brought with him a handful of his most trusted allies and advisors. Moia, Lucien’s half-human, half-Mahjarrat daughter who led Zamorak’s army during the Battle of Lumbridge; Hazeel, one of Zamorak’s oldest and closest Mahjarrat friends; and Lord Daquarius, the well-armoured Lord of the Kinshra.

“Your power’s diminished too, Hazeel?” he checked as he brushed a calloused hand against the wall’s surface, sensing the magic within.

“Yes, Zamorak,” Hazeel gravely confirmed. “Sliske has somehow managed to hone in on the slight divinity of the Mahjarrat in order to quell our power.”

Grumbling a Freneskaen obscenity, Zamorak huffed before continuing, “The only thing that gives me comfort in this shitshow is knowing that all the other gods are in the same boat I am. If one of them wants to start a fight, well,” he cracked his knuckles. “It’ll be one less enemy for us to deal with after we claim the Stone.”

“My lord,” Moia called out softly. “What of Vinculum Juris? If Zaros calls upon his favour, you will be compelled to give him the Stone.”

“True, that’s how the contract goes,” Zamorak accepted, but a cunning smile tugged at his lips. “But if I take the Stone and escape Sliske’s games before Zaros’ has a chance to call upon this favour of his, we’re home free. The contract only gives that manipulative motherfucker a small window to ask his favour - the duration of Sliske’s game - leaving us with a massive loophole to exploit.”

Zamorak and company particularly hated the rune combination lock doors; anything that required patience wasn’t exactly Zamorak’s forte, so he allowed Hazeel and Moia to work on it, lest he resort to ripping the door open with his bare hands. Of course, upon encountering the door, that was the initial strategy - break through.

This was much easier said than done, however, and such attempts left Lord Daquarius with a nasty bruise on his shoulder after he valiantly threw himself into the door, ricocheting off the thing and tumbling to the ground.

Eventually, they got the door open the conventional way. Soon after, they ran into Armadyl’s faction.

When Armadyl spotted company at the end of the long corridor he brought his avianse entourage to a halt. “Well, if it isn’t the murderer.”

Zamorak choked out a cruel laugh. “That’s rich coming from you, godslayer. How does killing Bandos fit into your ‘peace, love and justice’ bullshit dogma?”

“That was different,” Armadyl maintained, chin held aloft and shoulders broad. “You murdered almost my entire species. Your attack on Forinthry tore Gielinor apart.”

“Like I had a choice. You and Saradomin stood side by side ready to pronounce my death sentence. What would you have me do? Keel over without a fight?”

“We could have been reasoned with,” Armadyl insisted through gritted teeth. “We would have listened. We would have accepted a graceful surrender.”

Zamorak wagged a clawed finger at Armadyl. “You… perhaps. You still cling to the morality of mortals, perhaps trying to convince yourself you still are one. But not him. Not that fucker. He’s wanted me dead from the moment our war began. He can’t stand the fact that my message is as powerful as his.”

“That does not excuse what you did,” Armadyl growled, a violent, squawking sound that caused the avianse to tense up, ready to fight as soon as their god commanded it. “To save your life, you took thousands of others. Genocide, Zamorak! You nearly destroyed the avianse in your war!”

“Your war,” Zamorak retorted with a growl of his own. “I wasn’t the only one throwing fists in the God Wars. You brought so many of your people to Gielinor - warriors, to fight. It was war, and in war, people die. What did you expect? To roll over my forces without a single casualty?”

“No of course not. I-”

“Then you were prepared,” Zamorak cut in. “You were prepared to sacrifice every aviansie you brought to Gielinor. And hey, you won the war. But you paid the price for that victory. Only you can decide whether it was worth it.”

“That does not excuse what you did,” Armadyl maintained, coldly.

“No, and I’d never pretend it did,” Zamorak replied, “We all have scars to bare. I’ve done things that would make you lose sleep at night, but I’ve done them for the greater good. I... have made mistakes. I’ve seen those that I care about die… but I have owned those mistakes. It’s time you did too. So save your anger for who it’s really meant for.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

Zamorak laughed mirthlessly. “Isn’t it obvious? YOU brought your people to this world. YOU armed them with swords and spears and sent them out to face my forces. You asked each and every one of them to die - to die FOR YOU. You're angry because they did. Because in your fucking arrogance you thought that you were untouchable and your people invulnerable. Pride can be a terribly powerful weapon, but the blade always points inwards.”

Shifting his stance, Zamorak continued, “So, we can settle this right now and you can risk losing a couple more of your precious avianse… or we can go our separate ways and hash this out after the Stone is claimed. What’ll it be?”

Glancing back at his avianse entourage, Armadyl tried to gauge their reactions for an insight of how they wanted to proceed. Even though they were outnumbered, Kree'arra and Taka'ara were both in favour of the fighting option, hands clutched tight around their weapon and steely eyes piercing holes through Zamorak. Armadyl had always preached peace, but understood why his soldiers were so thirsty for the blood of the man that nearly wiped out their race.

Despite this, Armadyl was less inclined to resort to violence. Not while the Stone was still on the line. And as much as he hated to admit it, Zamorak had a valid point. Armadyl was angry at himself - intensely so… it was just so much easier to direct that anger outwards rather than inwards.

Sighing, Armadyl eventually said, “I do blame myself and rightly so. But I am never going to forgive you Zamorak. I won't strike you down today, but I will not mourn if another does it for me.

Zamorak grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

All things considered, the maze was going well for Jahaan so far. He’d passed another riddle door, conquering another line of Sliske’s terrible poetry, and came across one of these rune combination lock gizmos that took far less mental effort than he assumed it would.

Foolishly, Jahaan allowed himself to be confident.

Speeding around the next corner, Jahaan almost tripped over, skidding to a halt so abruptly as he came face to face with Icthlarin. Relief overwhelming his features, he beamed, “Icthlarin… nice to see a friendly face again.”

Icthlarin tried to smile too, but there was something a little bit off about him. “Jahaan... it is good to see you. I am glad... that we could find each other so quickly.”

Noting the odd twitching movements and uncertainty in his usually resolved tone, Jahaan queried, “Icthlarin? You seem… different. Are you okay?”

The demigod shook his head, a frown dominating his expression. “No… I cannot explain it, but no. I feel… I feel as if I am slipping away… my mind is becoming foggy… muddled… I…”

Icthlarin proceeded to sniff the air in front of him. “You… you smell of Friend…”

Jahaan’s eyebrows crinkled. “What?”

Slapping himself on the side of his head, Icthlarin creased his eyes tightly shut, trying so hard to remain focused. “I... I am sorry, that... I just... what's happening to me?”

Suddenly, the maniacal, twisted laughter of Sliske filled the air.  _ “Oh this is wonderful! I was curious as to what you would be like with your divinity curbed, but this is glorious! Far better than I could have ever hoped.” _

While Icthlarin growled, Jahaan shouted, “What have you done to him, Sliske?!”

With a sigh, Sliske replied,  _ “It’s as if no-one listens to me… honestly… I explained this earlier. I’ve removed a lot of the divinity from every contestant, including little Iccy here. Now I get to watch as they try and grapple with who, or what, they were before they ascended to godhood. This is Icthlarin's little struggle.” _

Icthlarin’s eyes were burning red. “Put… put me back…”

_ “And save you from this delightful torment? Why in all creation would I do such a thing? This is delightful! Mighty Icthlarin, noble guardian of the Underworld, wasn't always an erudite scholar. Though he might have been the pet of one. He was just a regular mutt. Weren't you, Iccy?” _

Icthlarin just about managed to catch himself before he began barking, but his teeth were bared and sharp, desperate for Sliske’s blood.

“Stop this Sliske!” Jahaan ordered, the lump in his throat growing unbearable as he watched his friend grapple with his fading humanity.

In response, Sliske let out a short, sharp laugh.  _ “Stop this? Why would I do that? To help him? To ease his suffering? You've met me, right? I think we've long since established that's not the way I work. No, it's going to be so much fun watching you drift more and more away, Icthlarin. To see you so humbled, so easily. Truly my finest work.” _

“SLISKE! END THIS!” Icthlarin roared into the air, but this time, he garnered no reply.

“I don't think he's listening any more,” Jahaan regarded his friend with heavy eyes.

Icthlarin whimpered, “Jahaan, don't… don't leave me here alone. May I come with you? I need someone... to remember who I am… I’m… I’m scared, friend. So scared. My sentience… I feel it slipping away...”

Jahaan tried to force a smile that didn’t reek of pity, knowing how much his friend would hate that. With as much confidence as he could muster, Jahaan rested a gentle hand on Icthlarin’s shoulder and assured, “You’re going to be alright.”

Icthlarin wagged his tail, but upon realising what he was doing, he cleared his throat. “Err, let’s just get through this as fast as… um… fast.”

_ “Will you stop smashing stuff, Strisath! It's making a terrible mess and you're really far behind!” _

Sliske’s announcement echoed through the labyrinth, bouncing off the walls before fading away into the white noise surrounding them. For Seren, that was the steady rhythm of the elves’ heartbeats alongside her own; it was soothing, a comforting blanket of noise to weave her thoughts between.

As they traversed the labyrinth, Seren and her elves had been floating ideas as to the origins of their predicament. Namely, the sudden mortality of the gods.

Seren pondered aloud, “Do you think it is some sort of mechanism?”

Lady Trahaearn, the eldest of Seren’s entourage, shook her head. “It can't be, m'lady. There ain't a nick nack in the world that could strip a god of its power. Plus it ain't scientific. An effect like this would have to be transmitted as light or sound, and there's more walls in this place than Morvran's holiday dungeons. Yep, this'll be your good ol’-fashioned magic.”

Lord Arianwyn added, “If it’s magic, it’s nothing like any I’ve encountered. It doesn’t even share characteristics. See, spells borrow power from one another. That’s the way of magic. Bones to Peaches shares something with Hi-Alchemy. Crystallise borrows from the Lunar Magicks. This feels utterly new, disconnected. It's like a new branch of magic. Which is exciting of course!”

“Exciting, but not exactly helping us determine its origin,” Lady Trahaearn continued with a frown. “Unless... unless we're overthinking this. Step back, think about what has happened recently.”

“Ha! I see where you're going with this!” Seren exclaimed, wagging her finger excitedly as they skipped around another corner. “Yes, yes, there have been a couple of instances. The World Guardian, for instance. The World Guardian can nullify god magic. I believe Guthix manipulated the anima in some way to achieve this.”

Lord Arianwyn added, “And there’s the edicts themselves. But no one knows if that was Guthix himself casting out the gods, or if it was the anima, the Sword of Edicts, the Stone of Jas…”

“The Stone of Jas is where my coins are on,” Lady Trahaearn stated, trying to examine the walls for any clues as to which direction they needed to go in, using her well-tuned ears to listen out for the faint hum of magic.

Seren responded, “I agree with you, but there are complications. The Stone of Jas does not simply have a switch that turns off god magic. Only a seasoned user would know how to generate that power from the Stone. Either Sliske has become extremely proficient, or someone else is aiding him. Someone extremely powerful.”

Lord Arianwyn insinuated, “Very few beings would have such knowledge of the Stone of Jas…”

Seren’s concern deepened. “I fear I know where you're going with this, Lord Arianwyn. I pray you're wrong, for the sake of this world.”

Lady Trahaearn gulped. “A worrying thought indeed, M’Lady.”

“It is. That’s why we need to make sure that we win the Stone, and that it can be kept in safe hands. Away from Sliske. Away from my brother. Away from everyone…”


	3. The Wrong Path

Jahaan and Icthlarin entered through the latest riddle door they solved and into a large square chamber. It was a seemingly innocuous room with no tiles, no masks or pillars, nothing.

Satisfied with the easy progression, Jahaan went to step forward, but Icthlarin pulled him back. “Wait,” suspicious, he sniffed the air, an involuntary growl escaping from his lips. Shaking his head, he said, “Bad. Place smells bad.”

Icthlarin backed away to the safety of the wall, shrinking up against it in fear.

Taking the hint, Jahaan stepped back, surveying the room a little closer this time. Again, there was nothing obvious to see; before, he and Icthlarin had come across a trap in the floor indicated by pressure pads, but it was bypassed easily enough. If this room was rigged, these traps were a lot more insidious, and therefore a lot more deadly. If Icthlarin hadn’t stopped in, who knows what Jahaan would have wandered into.

Peering over his shoulder, Jahaan regarded the whimpering Icthlarin with heavy eyes. Then, something caught his eye above the canine deity, just above the door frame. An inscription, slightly faded, yet the only noteworthy thing in the entire chamber. Curious, Jahaan stepped on his tip-toes to try and get a better look. Squinting, he just about managed to make out the words, but noticed they weren’t in the Common Tongue.

“There’s something up here written in Infernal,” Jahaan announced, reading aloud,  _ “‘Si solverit mihi, non cesset; si me tangere, ego, ut sit snared; si perdas me, nihil refert. Quid sum ego?’. _ I think that translates to ‘If you break me, I do not stop working; if you touch me, I may be… caught?; if you lose me, nothing will matter. What am I?’”

“Snared,” Icthlarin corrected, twitching. “If you touch me... I may be snared.”

The canine deity’s brow was furrowed heavily with the strain of keeping lucid. “I… do not…”

“It’s okay,” Jahaan assured, “I’ve got this, don’t worry.”

Playing the riddle over and over in his head again, Jahaan tried to fumble for a solution. This was slightly trickier than the terrible-poetry-turned-riddles he had encountered thus far, and he knew that the longer he spent here, the further he was from the Stone.

“Any ideas, Icthlarin?” he asked, knowing it was in vain. Icthlarin’s mind wasn’t working well enough to solve riddles right now. The deity shook his head, whimpering.

Minutes passed, and countless ideas turned around in the World Guardian’s mind. Time? The soul? Secrets? Nothing fit the profile, and Jahaan found himself stuck in a rut, the same wrong answers repeating over and over in his mind. Now he was starting to panic, that he’d be trapped in this room for the rest of the maze. Icthlarin had tried the door, but it had locked behind them. His heartbeat thumped hard against his chest, beating in his throat. Jahaan placed a hand on his neck, feeling his heavy pulse.

That was when it came to him.

“I am the heart!” he exclaimed, gleefully. “A broken heart will not stop working, a touched heart can become snared, but if you lose your heart… then nothing matters anymore.”

Depressing, yes, but it fit the profile. Still, even by thinking he had the right solution, Jahaan didn’t know how to proceed. There was nowhere to enter the solution. Frustrated, Jahaan stood on his tip-toes and examined the riddle again, trying to see if he missed anything the first time around. But when he traced his fingers over the inscription, the room started to shake. Glowing tiles with letters on them emerged from the floor, covering the length and breadth of the room. A small column emerged from the ground at the other end with a button on top. But more worryingly were the holes that appeared in the walls with javelin tips pointing out.

Gulping, Jahaan seriously hoped he had the right answer now. The issue was, ‘heart’ in Infernal was  _ ‘cor’ _ \- there weren't enough letters for him to step on to cross the distance. Same went for the Common Tongue spelling of ‘heart’. From what Jahaan could tell, he had eleven tiles to cross. Fortunately, he quickly came to the realisation that ‘I am the heart’ translated to ‘ _ ego sum, et cor’ _ , which was eleven characters long.

Praying to- well, nobody in particular, since they all had their own problems right about now, but he prayed that he had the right answer.

Tentatively, he stepped on the first tile - ‘E’ - wincing as he awaited imminent death. When death did not arrive, he opened his eyes and exhaled the breath he’d been holding for far too long. Carefully, Jahaan hopped across the remainder of the letters, all fairly close to one another, all fairly easy to jump to… except the last one.

Jahaan made for the ‘R’, hoping he could just stretch his leg far enough to land on the correct tile. Unfortunately, he stumbled on his take-off, realising mid-air he was going to undershoot and land on the neighbouring tile instead of the ‘R’. As soon as his foot made contact with the wrong tile, Jahaan had enough sense to fall forward, off the tile-board, and make himself as flat to the ground as humanly possible. The sounds of javelins whizzed behind him, hearing the dull *thunk* of them embedding in the wall instead of his flesh.

Once Jahaan was absolutely certain no more javelins were going to fire, Jahaan heaved his way to his feet, trying to remember the correct way to breathe. His heart threatened to jump out of his throat, pulsing and pounding in his neck, making every gasp for air a challenge.

After composing himself, Jahaan pushed the button on the pedestal and the tiles vanished. Seeing it was safe, Jahaan ushered Icthlarin across the room and out the next door which, to their delight, led to the glowing orb.

Jahaan hurried to touch the glowing orb with Icthlarin fast in tow, panting with relief. Catching his breath, Jahaan tightly squeezed his eyes shut, determined to maintain composure as he knew what would have to happen next.

Sliske was nearby this time, Jahaan could feel it, but he fought past the temptation to peer into the Shadow Realm.

Predictably, Sliske’s voice weaved its way throughout the chamber.  _ “Ladies and gentlemen, the World Guardian has taken a decisive lead and is now the first through the door. As promised, he can now remove the entourage of a participant, leaving them to walk these cold corridors all alone. So tell me, Janny, who’s it going to be?” _

“Myself,” Jahaan declared, his confidence shaken as soon as he glanced at the twitching form of Icthlarin at his side. He was walking on all fours now.

_ “Erm, what? You don't even have an entourage!” _ Sliske countered, bemused.

“I-I have Icthlarin! Let him out of here!” he just about refrained from saying please. He didn’t want to be reduced to pleading, but the waver in his voice betrayed him, “Icthlarin is part of my entourage. He's in pain. Let him leave.”

_ “That is not how this works.” _

“This is your game and your rules, Sliske,” Jahaan clenched his fists, his teeth gritted. “Are you going to follow them, or is this all a big farce?”

There was a pause, followed by a long, exasperated sigh.  _ “Fiiine. You get to let your doggy out for a walk. But Death’s part of that package deal too. If Iccy goes, he goes.” _

“Fine, just let him out,” Jahaan hurriedly replied.

Icthlarin looked so fragile now, so hollow as he tilted his green eyes upwards to meet Jahaan’s gaze. “Th... Thank... you… friend.”

Putting a hand on Icthlarin’s shoulder, he bent down to his level and assured, “You'll be okay. Don’t worry about anything.”

The canine deity just about managed a cracked smile before he was teleported away to, hopefully, recover with dignity.

_ “There,”  _ Sliske huffed. _ “Don’t say I never did anything for you.” _

_ I’m going to murder you, you piece of shit, _ Jahaan growled inwardly, storming off down the next corridor in search of further progress in the labyrinth.

Zamorak stomped through the maze, rounding another corner that only led to a dead end. It was the fifth dead end in a row. Grunting, he punched the wall, watching as pieces of stone crumbled away, before regenerating themselves back into perfect place in an instant. Hazeel, Moia and Lord Daquarius dutifully followed in tow, but they didn’t dare raise their voices, sensing easily the foul mood their deity was in.

“Sliske! I know you're watching! Get here now!” Zamorak shouted to the skies. “I can hear that fucking chuckle. Don't think I can't!”

Out of thin air, masks floated from above, each with a different emotion crudely carved into them. For every mask that fell, the echoed voice of Sliske followed.

_ “Feeling lonely, Zamorak?” _

_ “Want to chinwag about old times?” _

_ “Remember when you and I turned the Mahjarrat against Icthlarin?” _

_ “Remember when you stabbed Zaros in the back?” _

_ “Remember when you burned a hole in half the world?” _

Zamorak caught one of the masks and threw it against the labyrinth wall, shattering it on impact. “I'm getting tired of your shit, Sliske. Get down here NOW!”

More masks fell. _ “Remember when you tore a chunk out of Lumbridge?” _

_ “Remember when you almost died at the hands of the blue charlatan?” _

_ “Remember when Zaros plucked the wings from you like a fly?” _

_ “Remember when you were drawn to this game, even though you said you wouldn't play?” _

“ENOUGH!” Zamorak cut in. “I should have known better than to get an adult conversation from you, you mad bastard. Oh, I can’t  _ wait _ to get my hands around your throat, as soon as I've got the Stone back…”

To worsen his mood, when Zamorak and company rounded the next corner, they came to a sharp halt at who they saw at the end of the corridor. There, working on a locking mechanism, was Seren and her entourage.

Seeing Zamorak’s presence in her peripheral vision, Seren slowly raised her head and turned towards Zamorak.

The glare in the Mahjarrat deity’s eyes could cause nightmares.

Taking a tentative step backwards, Seren gulped. “Zamorak, I…”

“Kill the elves,” Zamorak ordered, crossing the distance between them. “I will deal with Seren.”

Edging backwards, Lady Trahaearn quivered, “What do we do, my lady?”

Drawing his thin sword, Lord Arianwyn answered in Seren’s place, “We stand and fight!”

“No, we leave,” Seren ordered. “I will not risk your lives.”

Zamorak challenged, “Then maybe before we kill them, how about we shed some light on your  _ true _ nature?”

Seren's breath caught in her dry throat.

“Oh, what's wrong? Do you not wish to subject your  _ favourites  _ to the truth?” Zamorak chided, venom on his tongue. “Are they too  _ precious  _ to hear who you really are?”

Narrowing his eyes, Lord Arianwyn declared, “We have no wish to hear your lies, you snake.”

“Snake?!” Zamorak roared a sharp laugh, acid spewing from his forked tongue. “That’s  _ so _ fucking  _ rich _ . You really don’t have a fucking clue, do you? You don’t know the goddess you stand beside. For an age we adored her as you do now, and all we got from it was fear, terror, and paranoia. We were all abused and wandering Children of 'Mah', all thanks to the curse she inflicted upon my people.”

Lady Trahaearn scrunched up her brow. Looking up at Seren, she queried, “What is he talking about, my lady?”

“I’ll answer that for her,” Zamorak cut in, fire in his eyes. “I’ll tell you all what Seren, beloved of the elves, did to my people. Did she raise us up to crystal towers? Everlasting life? No. She hid behind the mask of Mah and made us kill each other. Did the elves have to sacrifice their own fucking breatheren to subdue an elder god? No, they were too precious for that. Let the Mahjarrat die out. Let them suffer for centuries. We built a society and culture centred around these murders of hers, bound to them, for if we do not kill one of our own, we wither and die.  _ That _ is who you stand beside, elves.”

Seren felt the heavy weight of her own elves’ eyes upon her, regarding her with an emotion she’d never seen from them before. It was a crude blend of confusion, fear… and disgust. Once again, the shame she’d endured for generations reared its ugly head, constricting her breathing as it once did. She felt like she was back on Freneskae again.

Taking a deep breath to try and clear her mind, she forced herself to look into Zamorak’s vengeful eyes and plead, “Zamorak, time has changed me. I did what I thought I had to in order to ease Mah, to stop her violent nightmares tearing apart Freneskae. I see now how very wrong I was to bestow that upon your people.”

“Save your bullshit speeches,” Zamorak spat. “I have to claim the Stone of Jas. Then, we will finish this…”

Zamorak and his entourage turned and walked away, and Seren could only watch him go, her mouth agape, her hand slightly raised as if she wished to call him back... and the haunting image of betrayal and loathing in his dark eyes to overwhelm her mind.

“You do not know him as I do!” Azzanadra persisted, standing between Char and the next corner, angering the fire enchantress.

Azzanadra and Char had been at loggerheads since the start of the labyrinth, much to the exasperation of Zaros. The Empty Lord did not care to be a mediator in their conflict; it was bad enough having to endure these mortal humiliations without two of his closest allies biting each other’s ears off.

In response, Char squared up to him and hissed, “Look at everything he has done. You are a blind fool to continue trusting him. Just because he warmed your bed once, doesn’t mean won’t kill us all now.”

Maddened, Azzanadra swung around to Zaros. “Why do you listen to this… to this  _ dancer, _ lord?”

“Better to be a dancer than the high priest of a church of dust!” Char countered, summoning fire to her fingertips.

“Enough!” Zaros cut in, stepping in front of the two incensed warriors. “You two have been at one another’s throats for too long. We must not lose sight of our goal. So, we settle this now, maturely, not like squabbling children.”

Humbled, Azzanadra bowed his head, “Apologies, my Lord.”

Char muttered a similar, yet less whole-hearted, apology of her own, before she declared, “We need to kill him, preferably before he has another chance to open his mouth.”

His tone now a lot more measured, Azzanadra replied, “If it matters at all to you, I do not want to lose one of my few remaining brothers if I can help it. I do not care to be the last of my kind.”

_ “So considerate of you, brother!”  _ Sliske’s voice floated from out of nowhere.

“Sliske!” Azzanadra exclaimed, relieved. “We still have the opportunity to resolve this amicably before anyone else gets hurt.”

With a chuckle, Sliske replied,  _ “Oh Azzy, you silly, silly moo. I think the time for amicable resolution has long since passed, wouldn’t you agree?” _

“No, it hasn’t. You and I were blood brothers once, Sliske. Friends,” Azzanadra reminded, his eyes heavy as he looked upwards.

_ “Yes, friends. Tell me Azzy, if I had come to the Ritual Site... would you have had me sacrificed?” _

Azzanadra’s hesitation was all Sliske needed to confirm his suspicion.  _ “So you were more than willing to sacrifice your  _ ‘friend’ _ then, weren’t you?” _ he growled,  _ “I wouldn’t call the Marker an ‘amicable resolution’!” _

“What was I to do, Sliske?” Azzanadra snapped in his frustration. “You had turned your back on everyone. You had betrayed our lord!”

_ “Your lord,” _ Sliske corrected.  _ “I’ve been ousted from that little club, remember?” _

Zaros stepped forward and placed a gloved hand on Azzanadra’s shoulder. “My child, we must continue onwards. Do not let Sliske infect your mind with his poison.”

_ “Yes, go on, Azzy,” _ Sliske sneered,  _ “Run back to your lord. See if I care.” _

“You,” Saradomin narrowed his eyes, his entourage instantly unsheathing their weapons. “I had hoped you had fallen prey to one of Sliske's little traps. It would be a fitting end.”

As misfortunate would have it, Saradomin had run into Zamorak and company at a crossroads in the maze. Naturally, pride would not let them turn back. If anything Saradomin was glad for the chance at confrontation.

Zamorak’s follower’s readied themselves for the inevitable conflict. The Mahjarrat deity replied with a cruel sneer, “Do you think yourself deserving of such fortune, old man? Of course we had to run into each other.”

“Ha. Perhaps, but last time we had this dance you were not so fortunate…” Saradomin recalled, a taunting upturn in his smile.

“Ah, bit it’s different now, eh Sara?” Zamorak’s eyes flashed. “You feel it, don’t you? Mortality’s a motherfucker, isn’t it? Aching bones and weary joints... the ravages of age and the inevitability of death… it’s eating at you, isn’t it?”

“Do not mistake experience for frailty, usurper,” Saradomin warned, haughtily. “Mortal or not I am still your better. I am Saradomin. I governed worlds before you even knew what another world was. You don't really think you're a match for me, do you?”

At this, Zamorak actually laughed. “Without your divinity you’re just a sad old bastard. Do you even know how to fight? I’ve snapped the necks of creatures that would give you nightmares. But hey, if you’re tired of living, step up. I’m sure your human shields won’t mind if you handle this one alone, right?”

Jahaan stopped dead when he heard the voices he was encroaching on. Pressing against the wall, he edged along it and peered slightly around the corner to confirm his suspicions.

“Shit!” he cursed, dashing back behind cover and praying he wasn’t spotted.

Of all the deities Jahaan had to run into, it was two of the ones that had a real bone to pick with him. What’s worse, they were blocking a crossroads in the maze, one that would hopefully progress him further through the labyrinth. After losing Icthlarin, Jahaan’s sense of direction had undergone a string of back luck, running him into dead ends and forcing him to circle back on himself one too many times. Finally he found a new door, an unexplored route… and it had led him here.

Bracing himself, Jahaan took a deep breath and strode around the corner to meet his fate, hoping they would be too wrapped up in each other to care about him passing through.

“Ah, look who dares to show his face,” Saradomin drawled, narrow eyes glaring down at the World Guardian. “Now I can kill both of my enemies in one go.”

Zamorak scrunched his brow, biting back a smirk. “What did he do to piss you off?”

“He murdered one of my knights in cold blood!” Saradomin declared, angrily.

Jahaan opened his mouth to defend himself, but then realised he couldn’t, instead saying, “None of us have time for this. Let’s just move on.”

“Where are you going, World Guardian?” Zamorak stepped out to block Jahaan’s path. “For all we know, you could be in on this. Not like you’ve got the best track record, what with that shit you pulled at Sliske’s lair. We wouldn’t be in this fucking mess if you hadn’t stabbed me in the back!”

Jahaan didn’t raise his chin to look up at the Mahjarrat deity towering over him, but his eyes trawled up to meet Zamorak’s. “I’m not working for Sliske. Move.”

“In fact,” Zamorak continued, brazenly, “For once in his miserable life, Saradomin might be onto something. Let’s settle this, right here, right now.”

“I have no objections,” Saradomin motioned for his entourage to draw their weapons. Zamorak’s did the same.

“Yeah great idea,” Jahaan rolled his eyes, taking a step back to get some breathing room. “Give Sliske exactly what he wants. Kill each other. And you know what he’ll do when you kill each other? He’ll laugh. He doesn't want you dead because of some great plan. He wants you to kill each other because it’s  _ funny _ .”

The deities and their respective entourages were forced into silence, Saradomin reluctantly admitting, “The World Guardian is right.”

“Of course I’m right!” Jahaan found himself getting more heated now, the intensity of his tone increasing as he continued, “Who do you think has been at the centre of all of this shit? Not you. Neither of you have seen friends killed by Sliske. Neither of you have seen those closest to you warped into mindless wights. Neither of you have been beaten into a bloody mess after enduring his sick and twisted games. For all that you've been through, know that it's a drop in the ocean compared to what Sliske has done to me. So don’t you DARE think I’m siding with that psychopath. And for once - just for once - shut up and stop giving Sliske what he wants.”

There was a long, tense pause following this. Saradomin and Zamorak gave each other a look they’d never shared before, one that silently conveyed the begrudging acceptance that perhaps - just perhaps - their conflict wasn’t all that important right now.

Clearing his throat, Saradomin spoke first, “You have endured much, World Guardian. I respect that. Truly. But you would be wise to watch your tone.”

“He’s got a point tho, Sara,” Zamorak stated. “And Sliske’s a little higher up my shit list than you are. So let’s continue this another time, eh?”

“Indeed,” Saradomin agreed, readying his entourage to move on. “My followers and I have a Stone to claim. We can return to our conflict once all this is over.”

Zamorak grinned. “Count on it.”

With that, Zamorak and his followers continued on to a path to the east, while Saradomin took his entourage down a westernly route. In the centre of the crossroads, Jahaan was left alone, his body crumbling with the relief of a conflict avoided. Catching his breath, Jahaan straightened out his armour and marched on northwards.


	4. Moral Maze

Jahaan had been traipsing through the maze for quite some time now without running into anyone. After his spat with Saradomin and Zamorak, he was glad for the solitude. He knew at some point he’d run into the dragonkin - just his luck, after all. From Sliske’s announcements, they’d been making quite the mess. Recently Jahaan had stumbled over the debris of a broken statue, no doubt their doing.

Jahaan had no idea how long he’d spent in the maze, but it had to have been a couple of hours by now. His waterskin was empty, and the measly amount of food he’d packed had long since been scoffed. The thing about being stuck in a labyrinth was the lack of visual progression. Sure, he’d reached the glowing orb thing first, but beyond that, it was a free-for-all. Yes, he’d solved a whole bunch of puzzle doors and trap rooms by now, but they didn’t show any signs of lessening. Who’s to say Zaros wasn’t one locked door away from the Stone, or Saradomin hadn’t run himself in circles and was back at the start? Of course, the frustration was exactly what Sliske was hoping to elicit in the competitors. Seeing them squabble and break would surely be amusing for him...

Eventually Jahaan stumbled upon Zaros and company, the deity greeting, “Well met, World Guardian.”

“Hello Zaros,” Jahaan cordially replied. “How are you finding the game so far?”

“It is an unnecessary formality,” Zaros replied, betraying no emotion. “Sliske loves to caper and play the fool, but his time now is almost at an end.”

“You expect to win the game?”

“It is not a question of winning or losing,” Zaros stated. “I have never seen the need, or felt the desire, to participate in mortal entertainments and this is no different. I have made sufficient effort to ensure that whatever the outcome, things will transpire according to my design.”

Jahaan narrowed his eyes, warily. There was something subtly threatening about Zaros’ tone, something insidiously ominous, but Jahaan didn’t want to delve too much into it now, lest he accidentally make another enemy here.

_ But if I get the Stone, how would that fit into Zaros’ plan? _ Jahaan couldn’t help but muse to himself.

Such a thought only spurred Jahaan on, not wanting to waste any more time with idle chit-chat. He admired Zaros, but not enough to relinquish the Stone to the deity, should he claim it.

But before he left, he desired a small word with Azzanadra, who looked a lot more sullen and morose than usual. The Mahjarrat seemed to be staring off into space.

“Azzanadra?” Jahaan called.

The Mahjarrat looked up, shaking the cobwebs from his mind. “Apologies, World Guardian. My mind was elsewhere.”

“That’s okay,” Jahaan was slightly worried about Azzanadra’s tone but thought better than to question it. Mahjarrat hated talking about their feelings at the best of times, but in front of their god? Not a chance. But Jahaan had been hoping to run into Azzanadra, so he pushed his concerns aside for a moment and said, “When I met with Wahisietel, he said another Ritual was on the horizon. Did one actually happen?”

Azzanadra nodded, gravely. “A Ritual was conducted, but Sliske did not attend. It does not seem to have affected him, though. Not yet, anyway.”

“Why do you think that is?” Jahaan asked, having ideas of his own but hoping for some clarity.

Clearing his throat, Azzanadra’s eyes darted to Zaros and Char, refusing to meet Jahaan’s own. “Apologies, Jahaan. We can discuss this after the Stone has been claimed.”

Azzanadra strode off down the corridor, Jahaan numbly watching him go. He looked to Zaros in hopes of an explanation, but only received a courteous, “I must continue. Perhaps we will meet at the end, World Guardian.”

Strisath and Sithaph had separated from Kerapac at the start of the labyrinth, not caring for the more reserved strategy of the Dactyl dragonkin. No, the Necrosyrtes didn’t have the patience to follow Kerapac’s lead, instead taking to barrelling through the labyrinth like an unhinged tornado. Unsurprisingly, they hadn’t gotten far in the labyrinth, save for the few mask-based riddle doors they got through by pushing every button until the door yielded. They shrugged off the static shocks they endured like they were pinpricks.

Wings didn’t help them, though they insisted on repeatedly trying to fly over the walls, the forcefield stopping them every time.

Unfortunately for Armadyl, he just so happened to run into these dragonkin.

Armadyl’s breath caught in his throat as soon as he saw the dragonkin storm around the corner, halting his avianse and trying to subtly move in front of them to protect them.

Gulping, he whispered to his entourage, “Stay back. Don’t provoke them.”

As soon as Strisath and Sithaph locked eyes with Armadyl, they stalked over, a hoarse gargle from a forgotten flame dying in their throats.

“Why so scared, little budgie?” Strisath taunted, hungry eyes raking up the avianse god’s tall frame.

“I have no quarrel with you,” Armadyl tried to sound confident, but his tone was wavering.

“Nor we with you,” Sithaph’s tone was taunting and cruel. “Why would we fight the ‘Great Armadyl, holder of the Siphon’?”

“‘Great Armadyl, Beheader of Bandos’,” Strisath joined in with a cackle, skulking around to block one of Armadyl’s exits.

“‘Great Armadyl, Stone Coveter’,” Sithaph hissed, a strangled rasp of a sound.

Trying to quell his shaking, Armadyl let out a long breath and began, “Look, I am not interested in the Stone. Not personally. I want to lock it away, far away from any gods. I'm here to end this. And I could help all of you! I may be powerless here, but away from this game - I would free you. I would try to free you!”

Sithaph tilted his head to one side, licking his lips with a forked tongue. “You would do that for us? You would set us free? We wouldn't feel this... rage, this strength in pain? It would be gone?”

Sighing with relief, Armadyl excitedly continued, “Yes, all of it! I would dedicate myself to returning you to your noble roots, I-”

He was cut off by having to duck a fireball that was aimed too close to his head. Smoke huffed from Strisath’s nostrils as he grunted, “Foolish pigeon, it would be easier to rip out your stupidity than rip out the Stone's curse.”

Sithaph barred his fearsome set of teeth. “You stand here, with the gift of the elder gods removed from you, and claim to save us? Arrogant bird. The fury of the dragonkin cannot be quelled! Not by you, and not by any of the other pathetic creatures that call themselves gods…”

With that, they both let out an ear-piercing scream in tandem and bolted down the next corridor.

Armadyl watched them go, thankfully with a pride more singed than his feathers.

Once again, a vexing puzzle door blocked Zaros and his entourage from progressing in the maze. The puzzle blocking the door in question was a mechanism of sorts, one comprised of a dial that could only be solved by deciphering the rune symbols surrounding it. There were dozens of potential combinations, but Zaros had soon figured out the correlation between the composite runes in an incorrect colour and the number of twists required on the dial. A good twenty minutes at a previous gateway had led to that discovery and, to their relief, Sliske had been consistent in his solutions.

When they walked through, who was there to greet them at the other side, but Zamorak and his entourage.

The thick tension between the two groups was suffocating, a choking silence of calculations and false bravado.

Of all of them, Azzanadra was the first one to break the silence. “Well… this takes me back.”

“Be silent, worm,” Lord Daquarius warned. “You are in the presence of a god!”

Licking his lips, Azzanadra cracked a challenging sneer. “Do you have any idea who we are?”

“Relics of the past who should have stayed buried,” Lord Daquarius spat back, clutching onto the hilt of his sword.

“Better a relic than an usurper!” Char boldly retorted.

“Enough, all of you,” Zamorak groaned, exasperatedly. “Zaros, Azzanadra… it’s been a minute.”

Azzanadra replied, “We seem to be running into each other a lot these days,” he squinted at Moia. “I do not recognise the company you are keeping. What is she supposed to be?”

Zamorak introduced, “This is Moia. Lucien's daughter.”

Azzanadra’s face turned a sickening shade of disgust. “Lucien's… daughter? How? But… her face. What is wrong with her face?”

“I am half-human,” Moia announced, lifting her chin in dignified defiance.

“Half?” Azzanadra choked. “But that is not possible… my lord, did you know of this abomination?”

“Yes,” Zaros confirmed. “But she is not important. The secret of her creation died with Lucien.”

“Thankfully!”

“But I could be the future of our race!” an insulted Moia protested.

“Our race?” Azzanadra spluttered through the indignity. “Better to not have a future than this… this 'hybrid'!”

“Zamorak told me you were a self righteous fool,” Moia growled, baring her teeth. “I see now how right he was!”

Shaking his head, Azzanadra asked, “Zamorak, how can you stand to be around this 'thing'?”

Zamorak simply replied, “Moia is a loyal follower. She is also perfectly capable of speaking for herself.”

Still, Azzanadra persisted, “My lord, we cannot let this abomination roam free. It is an insult to the Mahjarrat. We must kill it!”

“We must do nothing of the sort,” Zaros firmly disuaged. “Moia is here as Zamorak's agent, and Zamorak and I have come to an understanding, as you should remember.”

_ “Oh, really? And here I was hoping for the big showdown…” _

Zaros audibly sighed. “Hello Sliske.”

_ “By all means, don’t let me disturb you,” _ Sliske continued, his honeyed voice dripping through everyone’s last nerve like acid.  _ “I really am sorry to have missed that shindig on Freneskae. You two finally kiss and make up, hm?” _

Zamorak’s grin turned malicious. “Sliske! You know, I really wish you had made it to the Ritual,” he flashed a devilish sneer at Azzanadra. “It would have been fun to see some of your  _ closest companions _ finally prove they were sick of you.”

At this, Azzanadra started to storm forward, but Zaros held an arm out to stop him.

_ “Come on Zaros, let them get it out of their system. After all, I’ve stripped you all of your powers. Even Azzy’s feeling the effects. It would be fun to see a little fist-fight between him and Zammy.” _

“Be quiet, Sliske,” Zaros warned, coldly.

Naturally, it was a warning Sliske did not heed.  _ “Then Zamorak, maybe you could take Zaros on personally? After all, you’ve already spent an eternity without your god powers. You KNOW how to fight. You could easily take him.” _

Zamorak had had enough. “Shut the FUCK UP Sliske!”

Sliske tutted.  _ “Oh, Zammy, you're still such a bore. Go on, then. Go back to your disappointingly non-violent squabbling.” _

“It is time to leave,” Zaros announced.

“Actually, I wanted to speak to you alone, Zaros,” Zamorak’s tone was measured, his anger dissipated.

Char boldly interjected, “Whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of all of us, usurper.”

Hushing her, Zaros assured, “Do not fear, my child. Zamorak and I have come to an understanding. I wish to hear him out. Please…”

He motioned for Zamorak to follow him to the far end of the corridor, though both deities knew they were being watched like hawks by the beedy eyes of their respective entourages.

“Your followers are very protective over you,” Zamorak commented, looking over his shoulder at the glare Char was shooting him. He waved in return.

“They are,” Zaros simply replied.

“Of course, while we’re both here, stripped of our powers…” Zamorak trailed off, an unreadable glint in his eyes.

“Yes?”

“This would be the perfect time to complete the rebellion.”

“By killing me?”

“Yes. I don’t think they could save you in time.”

Calmly, Zaros inquired, “And will you do so?”

After a long pause, Zamorak let out a deep, pent up sigh, and said, “It’s very, very tempting... but no.”

“And why not?” Zaros’ stoism did not waver.

“Because the rebellion’s thousands of years in the past. Because you helped save the Mahjarrat. Because we share a mother? But also because perhaps... I finally realise that I haven’t got shit to prove to you anymore. When you were gone, I conquered worlds. I brought death to whole races and redemption to others. Thousands of years ago I wanted to prove I could be a better leader than you. I’ve since proven that a hundred fucking times over.”

Though it couldn’t be seen behind his mask, Zaros’ lips danced with the faintest glimmer of a warm smile, one he hadn’t achieved in a milenia. “Good. It was always my hope for you that you would fulfil your potential. I simply did not anticipate it coming in the form it did.”

Zamorak felt like smiling too, but he restrained himself. “Yes, I recall you spoke of my potential when you made me your Legatus Maximus, back when I first became a general of your armies and swore to do your bidding.”

Zamorak relaxed his tensed up stance, his face washing over with a tranquility he hadn’t felt since stepping inside Sliske’s labyrinth. “It’s strange… we have not spoken like this in so long, my lord. I feel… 'loyal'...” his eyes grew wide. “Wait…”

Zaros brought a single finger to the lips of his mask, signalling quiet. “Sliske must not know. I will not take advantage of you.”

Zamorak knew this feeling - he felt it many times before, even right before he stabbed Zaros with the Staff of Armadyl. It was the insidious, smoky feeling of having his mind infiltrated, a power Zaros held and administered so easily. The ‘curse’ that Zaros spoke of, doomed to enforce loyalty in the beings he commanded over, never knowing if it was genuine or not.

_ What the fuck? Was his divinity… somehow not stripped... _

However, instead of anger at this unwelcomed familiarity, he only felt serenity. He knew not to ask questions, and he knew why not to ask, because he knew the answers; these questions and answers belonged to Zaros - they were not his own. “Then... this feeling of calm...?

“It is not real,” Zaros confirmed. “Your rage will return. Your rage at me, in particular. But I urge you, Zamorak, for the sake of the warlord who once showed so much promise, and the righteous divinity you have become, do not let it master you. Now, I must depart.”

“Goodbye my lor-...” Zamorak shook his head, clearing his mind. “Goodbye, Zaros.”


	5. Amor Fati

He made it. By the gods, he made it.

After spending what felt like half a lifetime running through that cursed labyrinth, Jahaan finally found himself at the end. Stepping through the final door, Jahaan could see it in the distance. The Stone of Jas, tantalisingly close.

But, of course, nothing’s that simple.

A large chasm separated him from the Stone. The ground simply seemed to end, a terrifyingly steep drop into the black abyss of nothingness. Jahaan felt himself getting vertigo just by peering over the edge. There were two thin bridges crossing over to the Stone, both blocked by an energy field of some kind.

Jahaan tried to place his hand through the shield, but naturally got blocked. Frustrated, he looked around the side, wondering if there was a way to jump past the shield, but it was too risky.

Grunting, Jahaan called out, “What’s this about, Sliske? I’m at the end of your stupid maze. Give me the Stone.”

A cackle reverberated around him.  _ “Patience, Janny… there’s just one more hurdle in your way. For that, we’re awaiting the company of another…” _

Irritated, Jahaan settled himself on a ledge and waited, examining the remnants of his backpack to see if he had any food left. Seeing that all the supplies had been used, Jahaan tossed the backpack down to the ground with a huff.

It didn’t take long for him to work out Sliske’s intentions, that being forcing the World Guardian to race another competitor. It seemed ridiculous - he had reached the Stone first, why should he have to go through this pathetic little hurdle?

_ Because Sliske finds it funny,  _ Jahaan grumbled internally. No doubt, that was why Sliske did a lot of things.

Before long, the chamber door opened again and Zamorak emerged through, entourage in tow. He regarded the bored looking World Guardian, then the bridges over the chasm and the Stone beyond. “What’s all this bullshit?”

Picking himself up off the ledge, Jahaan rolled his eyes. “I think Sliske wants us to race.”

Zamorak mirrored the eye roll. “Of course he fucking does.”

_ “Gentlemen, please!”  _ Sliske’s vexing tone interrupted them.  _ “Take your places. The race for the Stone is about to begin!” _

Reluctantly, Jahaan and Zamorak readied themselves on the starting block just in front of the protective shield. Honestly, Jahaan was more pissed off than he was anxious. After traversing the labyrinth for hours and making it to this ‘final section’ minutes before anyone else, he still had to race Zamorak for the Stone. Zamorak, a taller and stronger Mahjarrat not weighed down by the burden of armour. Jahaan deduced quickly that Sliske no doubt just wanted to see him lose up close and personal, to drag the Stone just out of reach at the very last minute. One last middle finger in all these bullshit games. Despite that, Jahaan’s initial goal had not changed - kill Sliske. Getting the Stone would have just been a nice bonus. But since he was so close to winning, damnit, he  _ wanted _ to win. Maybe he and Icthlarin could end up doing some good with the Stone, or at least hide it away to prevent another rerun of the God Wars.

However, his disheartened mood lifted slightly when Sliske announced,  _ “Oh dear, this won’t do at all. I think Jahaan deserves a little headstart - he did make it here first, after all. I’m going to make you work for it, Zammy. Now, on your marks… get set… RUN!” _

Thinking he actually had a chance, Jahaan bolted forwards the second the shield dropped, sprinting down the narrow platform and over the first hurdle effortlessly.

But it wasn’t long until Zamorak was running too.

Zamorak was incredibly agile for a creature of his size, but so was Jahaan. The World Guardian vaulted over the obstacles with ease. The height difference certainly worked in Zamorak’s favour, but Jahaan was nimble, managing to edge his way into the lead before Zamorak clawed it back.

Zamorak’s entourage looked on in trepidation. When Moia realised her master’s victory wasn’t guaranteed she resorted to desperate measures. Picking up a stray piece of debris, Moia aimed as best she could and hurled it across the chasm towards Jahaan. Unfortunately for the World Guardian, Moia’s aim was near flawless, catching him hard at the back of his knee joint. While his armour protected him from any pain, the shock and impact was enough to make Jahaan stumble - he tripped forwards, gravity cruelly catching up to him as he toppled down onto the narrow platform, clutching onto the edges of the walkway for dear life. A small chunk of the platform broke off when he hit the ground. Jahaan watched it fall into the abyss below with a furious heartbeat, his life flashing before his eyes as he realised how close he was to following that debris downwards.

Then he looked up and saw his chance of success being stripped away from him as Zamorak reached the end of the course.

As Zamorak hopped off the course, Sliske emerged from his hiding place, the Stone looming over his hunched frame. With a flourish of his hands, a spell was cast, and Zamorak’s entourage - along with all the other gods and their followers - were ejected from the maze. “Bravo, brother! Your little half-breed really did you a solid at the end there.”

“Get out of the way, Sliske,” Zamorak ordered, striding forwards. “I’ve beaten your pathetic little game. The Stone is mine.”

“Yes, yes,” Sliske accepted with a dismissive wave of his hand, stepping out of the way to allow Zamorak an unhindered path to the Stone. “A deal is a deal, and I am a man of my word. The Stone is yours - do with it what you will.”

_ “Yes, a deal is a deal, my Legatus Maximus,” _ Zaros’ voice emerged before he did, Seren teleporting by his side soon after.

Grumbling, Zamorak rolled his eyes and let his shoulders sag. “So fucking close… I thought you’d invoke this here. You want me to give you the Stone, right?”

“As the terms of Vinculum Juris dictate, I request for you to give the Stone to me,” Zaros confirmed. Zamorak could have sworn he felt traces of smugness coming from the deity, but he shrugged it off.

“Fair enough. The Stone’s yours,” Zamorak conceded. “A fair exchange for the salvation of my people.”

In all this, Sliske was thoroughly taken aback. “But… but how are you two here? You should have been cast out of the labyrinth when Zamorak reached the Stone.”

“You are not as powerful as you think you are, Sliske,” Seren stated with unwavering conviction. “We are beyond your tricks.”

“But she said…” Sliske shook his head in bafflement, trying to blink the pieces into place. “It doesn't matter. The game is over. The Stone now belongs to Zamorak.”

“You cannot do this Sliske,” Seren maintained, forcefully. “You know that any god being in possession of the Stone would be an act of war. It would plunge the universe into chaos.”

“Well, it’s rather fitting Zamorak has the Stone then, isn’t it?”

“But a  _ war _ , Sliske,” Seren emphasised. “It would wake  _ them _ . You must know that the elder gods sleep below us and you know what will happen if they wake!”

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps they had a part in all of this?” Sliske insinuated, causing even Zaros to falter.

This time though, it was Zamorak’s turn to pipe up, “You’re saying we’re supposed to believe all your bullshit was the will of the elder gods? Yeah, sure thing, you mad bastard.”

“Jas…” Jahaan gasped, having stayed quiet in the background until now, listening intently. With encouragement from Seren, Jahaan continued, “That orb in your study, I touched it, and my head was filled with a vision…” with wide-eyes of realisation, Jahaan looked up at Sliske. “You were talking to Jas, weren’t you? She was the one who showed you how to get the Stone, and how to use it to strip the gods of their powers.”

“Ding ding!” Sliske clapped his hands sharply together. “Congratulations, Janny. Of all of them to figure it out, I’m surprised it was you, but I’m impressed nonetheless.”

The cogs in Zaros’ mind were grinding with indignation. “You… had an audience with the most powerful being in the universe. You have been her agent. Why  _ you? _ ”

“Perhaps she was drawn to my magnetic personality?” Sliske grinned, unable to resist the tease. He recovered quickly though, continuing, “I don’t know why she chose me, but she did. We came to a mutually beneficial relationship. She gave me the power and knowledge I needed, and in return, I brought her the gods.”

Seren blinked. “You… brought her the gods?”

Sliske’s lip curled upwards slightly at one side. “Indeed. You intrigued her. She wished to study you, and I told her I could provide the means for that research.”

Jahaan angrily countered, “So what was all this bullshit about trying to steal my soul?”

Raising an eyebrow, Sliske replied, “You think I’m incapable of having two plans on the go? Now, my work for Jas is done, and the Stone is of no further use to me. The Staff, on the other hand...”

Sliske summoned the Staff of Armadyl to his hands, shooting Jahaan an intense look that made the World Guardian physically recoil. “I have one last use for.”

Suddenly, a haunting screech pierced the air. Soon after, Kerapac teleported into the clearing, adopting a proud and defiant stance that challenged all the gods before him.

“You should not be able to be here!” Sliske hissed, feeling the card house he had built start to wobble. “The Stone’s power should have cast you out!”

Kerapac stretched his jaw, showing off the fearsome set of fangs he housed inside. “Ignorant vosk. The Stone is our tether; you cannot keep us from it!”

Stalking forward, Kerapac’s shoulders raised and sagged with heavy, seething breaths. “You bicker over the Catalyst like a toy or trophy, but I know it for what it is. It is the whip that cuts our flesh. It is the collar that chokes us. It is the enslavement of my people!”

From out of his robe, Kerapac brought out an ancient-looking mirror with a plated gold frame - the Elder Mirror.

Holding it aloft and pointing it at the Stone of Jas, he screamed, “WE WILL NO LONGER BE SLAVES!”

Suddenly, sparks started to fly out of the mirror, attaching themselves to the Stone with a sickening crackle of pure elder energy. The cavern started to shake violently, rocks detaching from the ceiling and crashing down to the ground, shattering on impact. The Stone itself was fizzing and whirling, breaking apart with a furious anger that thrummed and pounded as the earth shaked and quivered.

Zaros and Seren gasped, eyes transfixed on the beam of energy that threatened to tear the walls down around them. They knew that Kerapac was channeling the anima mundi from around the Heart of Gielinor straight into the Elder Mirror. The anima mundi was then duplicated infinitely as it was redirected back into the Stone of Jas, overwhelming the precious elder artefact.

They also knew that the damage had been done, and that they needed to escape. Thus, they teleported out of the cavern and left the Stone to its fate.

Seeing their swift exit, Zamorak was smart enough to follow suit closely after.

Jahaan saw that Sliske was looking at similar moves to escape, but was damned if he was going to let him get away that easily.

“NO!” Jahaan screamed, launching himself at Sliske and tackling him to the ground. Once he’d grabbed onto the Mahjarrat, he managed to transport them both into the Shadow Realm, praying that being in a separate realm of existence from the Stone of Jas might protect them somehow. Fortunately, he’d caught Sliske off-guard enough to accomplish this and the two tumbled into the Shadow Realm.

Wasting no time, Jahaan dragged Sliske to his feet by his robe and started to pull him into a sprint. “RUN!”

Instinct taking over, Sliske complied. He and the World Guardian ran as fast as possible away from the Stone of Jas, leaping behind a downed statue just as the blast hit.

The aftershock of the blast had knocked Jahaan from the Shadow Realm - that much he felt from the difference in the air, sucking in a lungful of dust and debris that threatened to choke him to death. When the light faded and the ringing in his ears subsided enough to take stock, Jahaan dared to peer over the pillar and survey the destruction.

The Stone was no more - that was the first thing that captured his attention. Only a shattered plinth remained, fragments of the Stone’s surface thrown around the remnants of the cavern, piling against the walls.

Squinting, Jahaan thought he could see Kerapac’s body through the smoke and haze. If he remained so close to the Stone for that blast, there was no way he could have survived.

Hearing Sliske stirring beside him, Jahaan wasted no time, swinging back around and catching the Mahjarrat’s temple with his elbow.

Grunting, Sliske dodged the next attack by teleporting out into the middle of the ruined cavern, stumbling upon his landing. Clutching the side of his head, he growled, “You really are giving me mixed messages here, World Guardian.”

Getting back up to his feet, Jahaan drew both of his swords and declared, “This ends tonight, Sliske.”

Sliske laughed. “Even the World Guardian isn’t above a good cliche, I see. But you should have escaped with the others, Jahaan. Now…” he summoned the Staff of Armadyl back to his gloves hands. “Now I shall collect what I am owed. Wights!”

Raising the Staff aloft, Sliske brought forth the six Barrows Brothers to his aid, the wights that had once fought alongside Jahaan at the Mahjarrat Ritual now stood opposing him. The six against one advantage did not swing in Jahaan’s favour. Thankfully, Sliske seemed like he was going to sit back and enjoy the show, so Jahaan had more breathing room to deal with these undead foes first.

“Debilitate him,” Sliske commanded. “I need him alive for the transfer.”

Upon the order, the Brothers started to advance on Jahaan.

The good thing about the wights was that - unless specifically commanded - they did not run, thus they could be out maneuvered fairly easily if Jahaan kept on his feet.

With Sliske’s order to debilitate him, not kill him, the World Guardian felt a little more confident about his chances. Still, these wights could make a mistake and take his head off, if he wasn’t careful enough. With that in mind, Karil had to be taken out first. If a stray bolt caught Jahaan in the side of his head, it was lights out for good.

Sheathing his swords, Jahaan ran to the other side of the chamber and ducked behind a pile of debris to summon up his first spell, a simple air blast. Jahaan wanted to save his ancient magick spells for Sliske - an unwelcome surprise for the Mahjarrat.

Peeking over, he locked sight of Karil, making sure to pick him out from the cluster of brothers. As he did, two bolts whirled over his head, slightly too close for comfort. Crouching back down, Jahaan readied the spell. Once he’d gathered enough energy, he peered back over and shot the barrage at Karil, catching him square in the chest.

Of course, that wasn’t enough to kill him, but it was a start.

The Brothers were gaining on him now, forcing Jahaan to relocate behind a broken statue, dodging Ahrim’s magic attacks as he did. When the World Guardian edged out of cover to survey his next move, a bolt caught the side of Jahaan’s arm, ricocheting off the sturdy elder rune protection.

That’s when he saw Kerapac’s body lying close to him, and an idea came to mind.

Jahaan knew he could tank a few of Ahrim’s attacks - the armour managed to survive one of Zemouregal’s spells, so it could take whatever the wight threw at him.

What Jahaan needed to do was catch Karil as he was reloading. About seven more shots, if he counted correctly. To do that, he needed to use himself as bait, but he’d need a shield if this was going to work properly, something to protect his head. Unfortunately, Jahaan hadn’t come equipped with one, but the armour Kerapac was wearing would do the trick nicely. Quickly, Jahaan hopped out from behind cover, praying Karil wouldn’t get lucky this time, and dragged the corpse back behind the pillar with him. Swiftly, he removed Kerapac’s armour, held it to the side of his head, and hoped this wasn’t a mistake.

Running out from cover, Jahaan sprinted across the chamber towards the opposite corner, and not a moment too soon as the Brother’s were almost on top of him at this point. Ahrim got a few good strikes in, slowing Jahaan down a touch as he absorbed the impact, but nothing too wounding. As soon as Jahaan saw the first bolt shoot past him, he began readying a spell, and counted.

Another bolt, and another. Jahaan didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this cat and mouse strategy before something gave out, but knowing it was the best strategy he had so far, Jahaan held out for as long as possible.

Another bolt, this time catching the edge of his leg armour. Another one, just missing his arm.

Just one more left…

As soon as Jahaan heard that last bolt whiz by, he dropped the make-shift shield and fired a relentless barrage attack against Karil. Fortunately, it paid off, the wight collapsing to the ground and disappearing in a dust cloud.

“Hahaha! Congratulations, Janny!” Sliske announced with a sharp clap. “One down, five to go.”

Ahrim was more of an annoyance than a threat, but there was a risk that his strikes would gradually degrade Jahaan’s armour, making it more vulnerable in the process. So, Jahaan decided to take him out of the equation next. Dashing straight for him, Jahaan tanked a handful of magic spells, managed to weave out of the way of the melee-attacking Brothers, and unsheathed his sword seconds before he plunged the blade straight through Ahrim’s heart. The Brother crumbled to dust the second Jahaan removed his sword, freeing the blade just in time to block an attack from Guthan’s spear.

The hardest part was needing to separate the Brothers; Jahaan knew he couldn’t fight four wights at once. Even the greatest swordsman in the land would have had a hard time, considering the Barrows Brothers were incredibly strong and proficient warriors, even in their undead states. While wights were slower on the uptake than their living counterparts, they made up for it with durability - you cut a man’s arm off, it’ll give him pause, but do it to a wight, he won’t even notice.

So, Jahaan took to sending targeted air strikes at their feet and ankles. There was no sense bombarding them in the stomach or chest. Jahaan knew he wouldn’t be able to cast powerfully enough or quickly enough to do any lasting damage. But by targeting the legs, it slowed them down further, sometimes causing them to clatter to the ground. With this careful strategy, Jahaan gradually separated the Brothers out into something much more manageable to deal with.

And all the while, Sliske observed the battle like a hawk watching its prey. But if Jahaan squinted enough, he noticed that Sliske’s face looked thinner.

_ Of course! He didn’t attend the Ritual, and without the Stone supplementing his life force… _

Jahaan didn’t let himself get too excited - Sliske at his weakest was still stronger than Jahaan could ever be. But anything to slightly level the playing field was a godsend.

Verac’s attacks were fast and fairly accurate. The only slight weakness was when he had to pull the flail back around after each swing, but even this barely took any time at all. Sometimes he would even incorporate it into an attack, relentlessly gaining on Jahaan as he forced the World Guardian to hop backwards to avoid being hit. Jahaan knew enough about flails to know that they bested swords almost every time. You can’t block an attack from a flail head on, and if the chain wraps itself around the sword, you’d find yourself disarmed more often than not, having the blades wrenched out of your grasp.

So, Jahaan let Verac advance on him, trying to identify a pattern in his movements to calculate the best time to counter. But while this worked for the first few attacks, Jahaan unfortunately misjudged the distance during one strike.

When the flail swung forwards, the mace slashed towards the side of Jahaan’s head. He turned as much as he could, folding himself over to avoid the impact, but one of the spikes caught the skin against Jahaan’s temple.

As blood gushed from the wound, Jahaan started regretting not wearing a helmet. It was a risk, leaving your head exposed like that, but Jahaan had never managed to get along with them. His vision would be partially obscured, and distance couldn’t be judged, so he couldn’t fight half as well while wearing one. But the downside of that, of course, was leaving the most fragile and vulnerable piece of the body as a big, shiny target.

In Jahaan’s dazed state, he could have sworn he heard the scolding voice of Sliske reiterate that the World Guardian was to be taken alive, not dead.

Scrambling to get away from Verac, Jahaan moved his attention to Torag, who was quickly gaining on him. Unfortunately, the blow to his head had knocked him for six and he wasn’t able to dodge Torag’s attack in time. Jahaan stumbled backwards and fell to the ground as one of the hammers knocked him square in the chest. Coughing furiously, the winded World Guardian gasped for air, just managing to roll out of the way as he saw the other hammer set to smash down onto his torso. After Sliske’s assault, Jahaan knew his ribs were always going to be a weakness, but thankfully they didn’t feel broken or shattered.

Once he got to his feet and recuperated enough to see without blurred vision, Jahaan realised Dharok was also upon him, alongside Torag. The simultaneous attack from one of Torag’s hammers and Dharok’s greataxe was blocked by each of Jahaan’s swords, but it was a strain, especially in his weakened left arm. Slipping to the side, Jahaan used Dharok’s own strength and momentum against him, forcing him to stumble forwards. At the same time, Jahaan swung his second sword around, aiming for the unarmoured flesh around Torag’s elbow.

The sickening squelch as the blade sliced through undead flesh signalled he’d hit the target, followed by the dull thump of a hammer clattering to the floor, Torag’s severed hand still firmly wrapped around the handle.

Jumping backwards, Jahaan sought to gain some distance from the reoriented Dharok and the one-armed Torag, who didn’t even notice he was now missing a limb.

Sheathing his swords, Jahaan conjured up another series of air spells. The Brothers had congregated together again, threatening to overwhelm the World Guardian with their offence. Targeting the legs was a fairly easy way to slow them down, and Jahaan’s accuracy was pretty decent. Practice had really paid off, allowing Jahaan to hit the mark nine times out of ten. In fact, Jahaan got exceedingly lucky when aiming an air blast at Verac’s leg, missing the shin but catching him in the kneecap, shattering part of the join off. Verac tumbled to the ground and didn’t seem to be able to get back up again, much to Jahaan’s delight. As the World Guardian had found out personally, Verac’s flail was a huge threat. Now, that particular Brother could be easily culled at any time.

Now that the Brother’s had been effectively separated, Jahaan went to challenge Guthan first, nimbly dodging out of the way as the Brother tried to pierce the spearhead through his armoured stomach. As Jahaan went to counter, Guthan braced the spear to block the double strike from Jahaan’s swords, but instead of stopping the attack, Jahaan’s blades cut straight through the wooden shaft of the spear. The action surprised Jahaan a lot more than it did the wight, but the World Guardian recovered his wits quick enough to capitalise, pushing Guthan back with a kick to his gut and then finishing him off with a decapitating strike.

Dharok and Jahaan parried for a while, the Brother being rather quick with his reflexes, despite having such a large weapon. Jahaan knew to not give him enough room to properly swing the axe, keeping in close quarters with the Brother to restrict his movement. It paid off before long; learning from his fight with Guthan, Jahaan cut the greataxe’s handle in two before stabbing Dharok through the heart, the Brother’s armour no match against the razor-sharp elder rune blades.

The one-armed Torag wasn’t too great of a struggle either - it didn’t take much to outmaneuver him and take off his second arm, leaving him vulnerable to decapitation.

Panting for breath, Jahaan sheathed one of his swords, feeling the sweat pooling up in his gloves. He wiped away the beads coating his forehead.

Looking up at Sliske, he ambled over to Verac and drove the blade through the top of the crawling wight’s skull. “Now can we finish this?”

A sneer tugged at the corner of Sliske’s thin lips. “Not bad, World Guardian. I dare say I’m impressed. But I’m afraid I have one more ace up my sleeve…”

With a wave of the Mahjarrat’s hand, a cloud of smoke and shadow manifested in the centre of the chamber.

When it receded, Ozan was standing there.


	6. Dare to Die

His green eyes no longer shone emerald. Instead, they were sunk into their sockets, white and lifeless.

_ This was not Ozan. _

His hair was a tangled mess, not the perfectly layered quiff and bangs that usually framed his handsome face.

_ This was not Ozan. _

He carried himself like a broken puppet on a string, not with the suave bravado and swagger he was famous for.

_ This was NOT Ozan! _

But even if this figure standing before Jahaan wasn’t Ozan, it broke his heart all the same.

He wanted to call out to his friend, to beg him to remember who he once was, that he’s not just a thrall of Sliske’s… but he knew it was hopeless. Wights couldn’t be reasoned with, and Jahaan knew Sliske would get some perverse pleasure out of watching him hopelessly beg for his friend’s sanity. But Jahaan couldn’t help but gormlessly stand there, heart pounding in his throat and threatening to jump out of his mouth.

Sliske knew his nightmares, and this was one of them.

Mercifully, Jahaan regained enough composure to register Ozan readying his bow and arrow, managing to start running out of the way just before the arrow would have careened into him. A bow and arrow was far superior in accuracy and power compared to Karil’s crossbow, especially in Ozan’s hands. He was one of Gielinor’s finest archers, and even as a wight, his prowess would be second to none.

Fortunately, even Ozan’s arrows weren’t strong enough to penetrate Jahaan’s armour, but they packed a punch. As he was running from one point of cover to another, Jahaan felt one slam into his side, the arrow shaft splintering on the impact. Perhaps the shock was worse than the pain, but it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

Ozan was positioned by the remnants of the Stone of Jas, the crumbled remains of the universe’s most powerful artefact. And as the next arrow whizzed by him, an idea clicked into Jahaan’s mind.

When wights are bested in combat, they don’t die, for they’re already stuck in a perpetual state of ‘undeath’. Instead, they rejuvenate, ready to be summoned again. How long this rejuvenation process takes depends on the prowess of the summoner, but for someone as powerful as Sliske, the wights could be back at full strength within a couple of hours. If the summoner died while the wights were rejuvenating, the souls of the wights would be released to the afterlife - only then would they finally ‘die’. Most likely, the same thing would happen if wights were active when their master perished. But a small part of Jahaan wondered… if he killed Sliske while Ozan was summoned, would the Mahjarrat’s control over him be broken? Would he be free?

It seemed like a long shot; Jahaan wished he’d asked Icthlarin more questions on the matter. But even if there was the slimmest of chances he could save some part of Ozan, he was going to try.

So, instead of working to destroy Ozan’s wight form, Jahaan tried to impair him, to render him immobile for the rest of the battle.

Kerapac’s armour was dropped a little ways across the cavern, and Jahaan wanted to reach it before heading towards Ozan, just to give his head some protection in case an arrow accidentally targeted his skull instead of his protected chestplate. Sliske must have known that Ozan’s bow and arrow was not enough to physically debilitate him. But battles fought against the mind could leave greater scars than any carved on the body. When it came to battles against the mind, Sliske could be considered a warmaster. The Mahjarrat was smart. Twisted, malicious, but smart.

So Jahaan tried to pretend the man attacking him wasn’t the warped shell of his oldest and closest companion. Alas, it didn’t work that easily, but he kept trying. Jahaan found small comfort in the knowledge that he would soon channel all the rage, all the sorrow and all the grief that Sliske had caused him, and use it to beat the teeth out of Sliske’s skull.

Fortunately, no arrows were embedded in his head by the time he made it to Kerepac’s armour. Standing side-on to Ozan, Jahaan held the armour-plate tight against his head and edged closer to the wight, only peering out briefly to make sure he was walking on target. Naturally, this slow and straight movement made him easy pickings for Ozan’s arrows. Jahaan prayed that his armour would hold up.

The first arrow connected underneath his rib, arrow splitting in two with each end flying in a different direction. The second bounced off in similar fashion. At this rate, Jahaan realised the greatest danger was the unpredictable direction the arrowheads would fly in.

When Jahaan got too close, Ozan started to back away, edging even closer towards the Stone. Arrows that caught Jahaan at this distance packed a severe punch. One winded him as it crashed into the middle of his ribs. Groaning, Jahaan slipped one of his swords out of its sheath and kept on going, tanking another arrow hit.

Peering out from the side of his make-shift shield, Jahaan saw Ozan knock into the debris pile of the Stone behind him, staggering backwards slightly as the wight worked to regain his footing.

That was when Jahaan struck, a precise slash of his sword that cut the longbow in half. Using the wight’s confusion to his advantage, Jahaan dropped his sword and shield in quick succession, then launched himself at Ozan, a fierce knock to the side of his head making the wight stumble backwards and trip over the Stone fragments. With Ozan on the ground now, Jahaan capitalised on his crude plan to incapacitate the wight.

_ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry… _

Jahaan tried not to feel bad, reminding himself over and over that wights do not feel pain, that they do not suffer, regardless of what injury is inflicted upon them. Still, as he smashed the rock down on Ozan’s ankle, Jahaan himself let out a hoarse cry, but he masked it in a whimper.

_ I just want to help… I’m sorry... _

He couldn’t look Ozan in the eye. Undead wight or not, this was his friend he was hurting, and the sickening crunch of the shattered bone made Jahaan feel sick. But since the World Guardian wanted to disable the wight, not kill him, this was the only thing that came to mind.

Ozan made no protest, only swinging his arms in weak defiance, just like a zombie would. Before Ozan could shuffle himself into a crawl, Jahaan began piling debris from all around the Stone onto Ozan’s legs, effectively trapping him there. It was a long shot, and a desperate one at that, but if he could just say put, if he could remain in this realm...

When the last piece was in place, Jahaan moved to the side, tentatively examining what Ozan would do. The wight tried to shift, twisting to face Jahaan, but it couldn’t find enough purchase to lift the debris from the lower half of its body.

Suddenly, a bolt of energy connected against Jahaan, forcing his back to arc in anguish. The jolts of arcane magic caused his entire body to spasm. When the stream of shadow energy ceased, Jahaan collapsed to the ground, twitching and panting from the aftershock.

“Honestly,” Sliske grumbled, teleporting down from his high perch and into the chamber-turned-battleground. “If you want something done right, do it yourself…”

Jahaan forced his head to the side, to look at the debilitated form of Ozan, and watched with gut-wrenching dismay as Sliske caused the wight to vanish with a wave of his hand.

The plan to try and save Ozan had failed. That hurt more than Sliske’s attack.

“You know, you’re really starting to irk me, World Guardian.”

Jahaan heard heavy footsteps move towards him, then a firm boot stomping on his back, forcing his face to smash against the ground.

“Come on, get up,” Sliske’s voice had the remnants of a growl lodged in his throat. “You risked both our necks to start a fight, so let’s get on with it.”

Groaning, Jahaan went to prop himself up, but it was a struggle. In his peripheral vision, he saw Sliske lean towards him again - and that’s when he struck.

Whipping around quickly, Jahaan threw a blinding smoke spell into Sliske’s eyes, causing the Mahjarrat to cough and choke. Using the distraction, Jahaan scrambled to his feet and gained some distance from the Mahjarrat, readying a smoke barrage to capitalise.

The spell connected, knocking Sliske back a pace. Growling, he teleported to the other side of the chasm before Jahaan’s next spell could strike him, countering with a wave of shadow magic.

Sliske’s attack hit dead on, forcing the World Guardian to the ground, but he recovered quickly.

“I see you’ve been dabbling in some of the  _ darker arts _ ,” Sliske sneered, shadows dancing and curling around the base of their master. “Good. I was hoping for some semblance of a challenge.”

Finally, the battle commenced in earnest.

Jahaan weaved and ducked out of the way of oncoming fire, tanking the odd hits he couldn’t quite slip out of the way from. Fortunately, his armour held up well. Memories of fighting Zemouregal told him he couldn’t rely on absorbing every hit - his ribs were a weakness to him as it was. But he could take enough without too much pain or damage. It was very reassuring, being enveloped in such strong armour.

In return, he fired back when he had the chance, smoke and blood barrage spells slipping easily from his gloved palms. He could feel the burning heat against the skin of his hands, thankful that the material his gloves were made out of provided the wearer with some form of spellcaster’s protection. Many people preferred fighting with a wand or staff for greater accuracy, avoiding the scorched palms in the process. Not Jahaan. To him, staves were cumbersome and wands were flimsy. Learning to palm-cast was harder, but it was much more useful for someone who predominantly fought with melee items.

Besides, it was much more satisfying to watch Sliske feel the pain from a spell summoned from Jahaan’s own hands.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for what you did to me,” the Mahjarrat hissed, blocking a smoke spell with a shadow-esque shield.

“What I did to you?!” Jahaan spluttered, indignantly. “You nearly beat me to death! You killed my best friend!”

“You broke your promise,” Sliske countered, coldly. “You gave me your word, and you betrayed me.”

Shadow hands emerged from the ground, clawing at Jahaan. While he kicked one of them away, another grabbed so tightly onto his left arm that it threatened to crush the armour. As quick as he could, Jahaan unsheathed a sword and hacked through the arm clutching at him, dashing away from the remaining ethereal limbs.

“You’re delusional, Sliske,” Jahaan couldn’t even put enough venomous emotion into the statement. There was no sense in arguing with someone so lost in their own fables.

Then again, Sliske felt the exact same way.

Sliske’s attacks were wild and vicious, and he had no problem in hitting Jahaan when he was down. Arcane energy in the form of lightning strikes would crash down from above, hitting the ground around Jahaan’s feet, causing it to crumble and quake. The World Guardian would fall to the floor, greeted half a second later by a thunderous blitz of shadow magic against his downed frame.

Jahaan predicted that, with each spell and attack Sliske summoned, he was rapidly drawing away from his life force. Without the Stone’s power, and without his energy having been rejuvenated in the last Ritual, Sliske was running on empty. In a way, Jahaan thought it best to prolong this fight as long as possible, to force Sliske into wilder and more powerful spells that would sap his energy. This would weaken him quicker. However, this was a double-edged sword, for stamina worked both ways - the longer the fight lasted, the more likely Jahaan was to make a mistake, one that Sliske could capitalise upon to fatal ends.

Occasionally, a handful of unstable wights would be conjured and sent to attack Jahaan. These were easy to kill, slow and unresponsive, and served as a distraction more than anything so that Sliske could exploit the situation. Usually Jahaan would find himself tangling with a wight, only to be struck across the side by a bolt of shadow energy.

These wights didn’t seem to be as robust as the Brothers - far from it. Sometimes they would explode before even reaching Jahaan. Occasionally they would explode just before Jahaan could kill them, sending out scolding particles of arcane energy. If he was unfortunate, these particles would singe Jahaan’s face, already adding to the collection of burn marks he was sporting.

Jahaan didn’t think this was all that intentional, but instead a by-product of Sliske’s rapidly draining power, making him unwilling to part with large chunks of energy in order to fuel an army of strong wights. The Barrows Brothers alone must have drained him considerably. Perhaps he was grasping at the severity of his situation?

Looking carefully, one could notice how sunken Sliske’s eyes had become, receding back into their hollow sockets. His grey skin was tighter against his chin, clawing away from him and fraying at the edges. In some places, where the flesh was closer to the bone, it had peeled away completely, showing the animated corpse beneath. His breathing was shorter now, tighter, as if he was inhaling through a thicker, unfamiliar atmosphere with untested lungs.

It seemed as if Sliske was growing aware of this himself. Gazing down at his hand, the Mahjarrat removed a glove and felt his heart sink at the confirmation. The cracking sound as his skinless fingers clenched into a fist only served to make Sliske even angrier, and he took it out on Jahaan.

Fortunately for Jahaan, the more heated Sliske seemed to get, the less accurate his attacks were. More and more, the World Guardian could counter one of the Mahjarrat’s spells with an attack of his own. Smoke and blood spells connected against Sliske with increased power and precision.

Occasionally the fight was brought to the Shadow Realm, usually by Sliske, but Jahaan would chase him there, refusing to give him enough respite to calculate his offence. But even without entering the Realm, Jahaan could trace Sliske’s movements inside of it, tracking where he would emerge.

“I’m really regretting my choice of gift,” Sliske chided as Jahaan pursued the Mahjarrat into the Shadow Realm once more.

More shadow hands reached for Jahaan, their translucency a trap as they would cling onto their prey tighter than any mortal arms. Thankfully, Jahaan evaded them this time.

With a hoarse groan, a smoke barrage collided with Sliske at full force, causing him to double over and clutch at his stomach. Ragged breaths slipped past clenched teeth, tight and laboured. By now, Sliske’s eyes seemed far too big for his face, as if his skull had shrunk. Flesh hung loosely from his gaunt, jutting bones. In the patches where it hadn’t receded completely, his skin was like paper.

Unfortunately, the effects of the battle had been taking their toll on Jahaan too. He couldn’t think how long the two had been duelling, but the exhaustion was really starting to kick in now. Underneath his armour he could feel the swelling and tenderness of bruises starting to form. Sweat poured down his forehead, coating his black locks and sticking them to his cheeks. He flicked his head to one side, trying to detach them from his skin.

More than anything, Jahaan didn’t want Sliske to know that the fatigue was getting to him. Knowledge like that could give Sliske a confidence boost, one that could work severely against the World Guardian.

Still, he needed a few minutes to catch his breath and compose himself, even if such respite gave Sliske a breather in the process. Without it, Jahaan feared he would collapse. Adrenaline can only take a man so far.

The last thing Jahaan wanted to hear was Sliske’s honeyed voice grating against his eardrums, but if it provided some respite to his attacks, then he’d suffer it.

“So come on,” Jahaan huffed, wiping his brow with a gloved hand. “Seeing as we’re near the end of all this, you can tell me the truth now.”   
Sliske’s stance was guarded, but he seemed to be in favour of their unspoken time-out, deciding against conjuring another attack. “The truth about what?”

“About why you wanted  _ my _ soul,” Jahaan replied, resting his hands on the hilts of his swords. “You’ve met thousands of people across hundreds of lifetimes - surely you could have used any one of them to get a soul!”

“Don’t you think I tried?” Sliske barked back. “Hundreds upon hundreds of failed experiments! I tried everything, got lost in my research, but none of them were compatible with me… but you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, you prying little World Guardian. Even when I had the Staff, nothing would take.”

“And so you took the word of a madman to come after me? All because he plucked my name out of thin air?”

“You don’t believe much in destiny, do you?” Sliske chided. “It’s such a romantic concept. I knew - all the way back then, I  _ knew _ \- that if I were to acquire a soul, it would be yours. You’re…  _ special _ . Always have been.”

Jahaan didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he decided to end their little respite before Sliske could dive into a vexing soliloquy. There was only so much the World Guardian could take. Fortunately, the Mahjarrat didn’t react in time and took the full brunt of a smoke barrage. The spell caught onto the fabric of his robe beneath his chin, incinerating a small portion of it and burning the flesh below. Seeing the opportunity, Jahaan channeled a delicate and precise blood spell, one that targeted the blood seeping from Sliske’s wound. Soon, the ink-like substance that came from the wound was under Jahaan’s control. The World Guardian pulled the blood out like it was a weed. Thin and sticky vines defied gravity as they were wrenched out of the Mahjarrat’s body.

Roaring in anguish, Sliske forcefully pressed a palm to the wound, desperate to stop the essence being dragged from his body. Realising the effort was for nought, he fired a wild spell in Jahaan’s direction, missing the mark but close enough to get Jahaan to break his concentration on the spell.

Sliske stumbled, hunching slightly as he panted for breath, the heat of his palm trying to nurse the wound. Baring his teeth, seething eyes glared daggers at Jahaan. “Did Azzy teach you that one?”

Jahaan’s lips curled with a tinge of cruelty.

Sliske fought back with increased venom, a wave of shadow magic storming across the chasm and crashing into Jahaan. The World Guardian tumbled to the ground, rolling at speed into a pile of debris. Once the world stopped spinning, Jahaan became aware of an acute pain in his jaw and the unmistakable taste of iron in his mouth. When he spat out, blood came with it, alongside a fragment of tooth.

Groaning, Jahaan tried to pull himself to his feet, but a blast of shadow energy put paid to that. In fact, several more bolts connected with him as Jahaan desperately tried to crawl behind a downed pillar for cover.

Gasping for breath, Jahaan tried to reorient himself and prepare to counter. But by the gods, was his back killing him. That last onslaught had really done a number on his already aching muscles. But for what it was worth, that last onslaught had also taken its toll on Sliske.

“You just wanted to make me one of your thralls!” Jahaan called out from behind cover, stretching out the kinks in his back, trying to shake off the pain in his aching muscles. “You pretended to care about me, but you were just using me all this time. So don’t get pissed just because I used you. It’s a two-way street.”

Jahaan flinched as a bolt of arcane energy careened into the remnants of the pillar, shattering his stone cover.

“I would have given you eternal life,” Sliske’s voice was low and ever so slightly shaky. “I would have given you power, a place in this world. You would have had purpose. I would have let you keep your free will.”

“Until you got bored,” Jahaan countered. “And stripped that away from me with a click of your fingers.”

Sliske shook his head lightly. “Not you. I would never have done that to you.”

The worst part was that, despite everything, a part of Jahaan believed Sliske. The Mahjarrat was a master of manipulating emotions, and Jahaan had to remind himself that’s exactly what this was - a manipulation. Sliske was trying to get under his skin to throw him off balance, nothing more.

_ Nothing more? _

Shaking the cobwebs from his mind, Jahaan readied himself and dashed out from behind cover, a forceful retaliation of spells at his fingertips.

Sliske tried to keep up, but he was weak, weaker than he’d ever felt before. Five hundred years pass between each Ritual, and yet even after all that time he’d still have enough in the tank to fight to the death beside the Marker.

The words of his half brother began to repeat inside his mind,  _ ‘And what would happen if all your plans fell apart and you were finally cornered?’ _

In his arrogance, he had shrugged off his brother’s concerns. There was always another plan, after all.

He’d have to think fast, have to calculate his next move. Was escaping even an option? Jahaan had stopped him last time and he could again. But regardless of that, Sliske didn’t want to run away this time. What was the use? The state he was in, he could wither and die all alone before he came up with a solution to rejuvenate himself.

He just had to think. While there was still hope for his plans to succeed, he would keep trying.

He still had the Staff. He still had a chance.

This was not over yet. Far from it.

At least, that was what Sliske thought...

Before long, Sliske’s spells became weaker and harder to cast, the strain on each one hurting himself more than the spell’s target. All the while, his brain racked for a way to turn the tables in his favour, to get the soul he needed now more than ever. If he was to die in this world, that soul was his only chance of living on in the next.

With the Staff, the Siphon, there was a way. Jahaan just needed to be debilitated as the extraction was a delicate process.

But Jahaan was fighting with more vigor now - perhaps he could sense Sliske’s withering and desperation? Perhaps it was spurring him on, giving him enough adrenaline to counter each of Sliske’s attacks with a thunderous rebuttal.

The World Guardian was gaining on him, closing the gap between them. Each hit Jahaan tanked didn’t slow him down as much as Sliske needed, and it didn’t deter him from pushing onwards. Sliske tried to hold his ground, but the more powerful attacks winded him, causing him to cough and splutter up mouthfuls of acidic bile. The next bolt of blood magic smashed into his gut, causing the Mahjarrat to double over, now finding blood dripping out from between his teeth and pooling in the black of his throat.

He didn’t notice Jahaan slip the dagger out of its sheath until it was far too late.

Jahaan leapt into the air, runite dagger held high. The sharp tip of the blade was angled towards the top of Sliske’s skull. Starved for reaction time, all the Mahjarrat’s instincts allowed him to do was to bring his right arm up to intercept the dagger’s path.

The dagger embedded itself in the lower part of Sliske’s right forearm. A sickening squelch would have normally been expected, but there was not enough flesh to garner such a noise. Instead, it was worse - a nauseating snapping sound as the blade tore through weakened muscles, then followed by the dull, heavy knock against bone. The crushing force of the hilt smashing against Sliske’s increasingly frail arms caused a large chunk of bone to shatter in the Mahjarrat’s arm. At the same time, the hilt of Jahaan’s dagger cracked and the blade dislodged from its perch inside the handle.

Howling in agony, Sliske tried to summon a spell to fend off Jahaan, but the act made him lightheaded. This time though, the World Guardian didn’t capitalise, instead watching numbly as Sliske staggered back into the cliff wall behind him. Wheezing and panting, each heavy breath strained to free itself from his throat. The Mahjarrat coughed, bringing forth blood as he did so.

The dagger in his arm had been the final straw. Even though he’d protected himself against the killing blow, Sliske already felt blackness crawling into the corners of his eyes.

Shaking hands clutched onto the wound the dagger had made. He felt the crumbled bone rattle in his arm, a quiet yet deafening sound that made Sliske want to retch. Some fragments had come loose, tumbling out of his sleeve and scattering across the ground like marbles.

And still Jahaan didn’t move. He was rendered immobile by the sight before him, struck dumb by the realisation that he had  _ won _ . This was it. It was so nearly  _ over _ .

Everything started to feel unreal, almost hollow. It was a clouding sensation Jahaan couldn’t quite grasp, but it refused him the luxury of any prevailing emotion. No elation at victory, no relief that all this madness was nearly at an end. Just… emptiness.

Sliske all but collapsed against the rock behind him, scraping down the jagged edges until solid ground halted his descent. Panting, he gazed up at Jahaan through blurred eyes, trying to end the double vision so he could sharpen the world around him.

“It seems you’ve got me in a spot of bother,” he winced through the words.

Rolling his shoulders and clicking his neck from side to side, Jahaan stretched the stiffness out of his aching muscles. The swords felt like tonne weights in his hands. He held them limply, not having the strength to sheathe them completely. Darkness floated into the edges of his mind, his eyes begging for momentary release, but he fought to keep them open.

His attention was pulled back into reality by the sound of tearing material. Glancing over at Sliske, the Mahjarrat was using the edges of his robes to bind his wound.

“I was a fool to think I could skip a Ritual,” he muttered, cringing as he tied the material tighter around his forearm, letting out a strangled cry as he squeezed the wound. After the pain had subsided from blinding to just plain agony, Sliske calmed his ragged breaths and reached around to unhook his shoulder armour. The weight of it suddenly felt unbearable, like gravity had turned malicious and was using the metal to crush him. His molded torso platebody also felt far too constricting - he removed that too, letting it fall to his side. Finally, he could  _ breathe _ .

“I didn’t know the drain would be so fast, so intense,” Sliske continued, “I thought I would have TIME, time to find a source of energy to tide me over until the next Ritual. How was I to know this would be the last one? That Mah would drain us for all we had? I suppose the Stone really was keeping me afloat. When the Dragonkin destroyed it, the cord was cut, and thus my power, my energy, my… my life is being drained from me, quicker than ever before.”

“You’re dying,” Jahaan surmised, bluntly.

Scoffing, Sliske smiled in surrender. “Always the wordsmith.”

The two were silent for a long while. No malicious teasing from Sliske, no foolhardy defiance from the World Guardian. It was tangible, the space between them. Jahaan felt like he could reach out and mould something out of the thick air.

Exhaling deeply, Jahaan nodded to himself, growing in certainty as he did.

Dropping his swords to the ground, Jahaan began the task of unhinging his plate armour.

Seeing this, Sliske offered him a puzzled look. “What are you doing?”

“Making this a fair fight,” Jahaan simply replied, removing the last section of his platelegs. He picked up one of his swords and tossed it over to Sliske’s feet. “Can you fight with your left?”

Sliske blinked. “Of course. But why?”

“It’s simple, really. You’re not going to live, but I’m not going to  _ let  _ you die. You’re going to fight, and I’m going to kill you.”

The Mahjarrat’s face cracked a thin smile, but the gesture was weak, a pretender, a shadow of its former self. “Would that make you happy, Janny? To drive a blade through my cold heart once and for all?”

Shoulder’s sagging, Jahaan sighed in frustration, rubbing his pounding temples with his free hand. “I don’t know anymore, Sliske. I just don’t know.”

After regarding Jahaan carefully for a long, pronounced moment, Sliske took the sword and forced himself to his feet, stumbling slightly as he was painfully reminded of the weight of his own body.

Testing the weight of the sword in his uninjured hand, Sliske said, “If you have a deathwish, I suppose I can oblige. But what do I gain from killing you, hm?”

“Don’t kill me - bring me close,” Jahaan replied, “Do that, and you can finally get what you’ve always wanted... you can have my soul.”

This made Sliske’s eyes light up. “Well, that's an offer I simply cannot refuse. Let’s dance.”


	7. Battle of Souls

At first, the duel consisted of Sliske and Jahaan circling one another, testing out the grip on their swords and feeling out their opponent. The occasional swing would be made, but never in earnest. Instead, it was experimental, almost playful, examining one another’s technique and trying to plot any viable weaknesses to exploit.

Their previous anger and hatred seemed to have faded, or at least dulled considerably. For Jahaan, such extremes were far too tiring on his already exhausted mind. To him, their situation was simpler than ever: Sliske was going to die. There was no rush to end the battle, or indeed any incentive to drag it out any longer than it needed to be. Jahaan was content with his decision, and now put his focus towards remaining calm and composed, steady and focused, waiting for the chance to strike.

For Sliske, on the other hand, he was far too concerned to allow volatile emotions to cloud his judgement. This was a precarious situation for him, already weakened and with only one chance left at salvation. He had to play his cards better than ever before. It didn’t help that Jahaan was an experienced swordsman, and Sliske hadn’t fought with a blade since the Kharidian-Zarosian War back in the Second Age. Still, you never forget how to fight - Mahjarrat especially. He was confident enough in his own ability, but mistakes could always be made.

He just hoped Jahaan made one first.

“Why did Jas choose you?” Jahaan casually asked, focused on the point of his blade as he parried another one of Sliske’s lunges. Since the Mahjarrat was going to die, he might as well get all of the answers while he could.

“I do not know for certain,” Sliske kept his tone light, not betraying the creeping anxiety he was feeling. “She was interested in the gods, and I was the newest among their ranks. Perhaps that drew her to me.”

“So you  _ did _ ascend?” Jahaan had always expected, subtly assumed, but Sliske had never confirmed it before.

“I don’t believe I had any choice in the matter, after killing Guthix and claiming two Elder artefacts as my own,” Sliske’s stance changed, playing more on the defensive as he explained, “I never particularly cared for the bows and tassels that came from ranking among the divine, but achieving godhood was always part of the plan, and I succeeded. But I was never to stop there. You see, gods suffer the same fate as the Mahjarrat - they live a hundred human lifetimes, but they die eventually, and then they’re gone. Gods relinquish their right to a soul, to an afterlife. The Saradominists and Zamorakians get to enjoy the afterlife their god and their faith has created for them, but do you think their gods ever join them in that paradise? It’s a pretty raw deal if you ask me. But what if I could achieve something no being in existence has even dared to contemplate? What if I could achieve godhood AND obtain a soul? If I did that… I could create my OWN afterlife. A world where beings were free from the shackles of dogma, where the gods of this universe held no sway.”

Jahaan almost felt like laughing at how ludicrous Sliske was sounding. “Yeah, free… except from everyone being under YOUR control. Besides, you creating your own afterlife? Icthlarin would never allow it.”

There was an instant where Jahaan took his eye off the target as he absorbed what Sliske was saying, and the Mahjarrat used that to capitalise. The sword sliced through the air, and while it didn’t quite hit the mark that Sliske intended, it did succeed in drawing a deep gash across Jahaan’s left upper arm.

“Icthlarin is but a small fish in the pond of godhood,” Sliske countered, calmly flicking the blood off his blade into a neat splatter pattern on the ground. “He has far less power and reach than you assume.”

Jahaan skipped backwards a few paces, trying to ignore the crimson streaming from the wound and the searing pain that came with it. He repositioned himself, checked the grip on his sword. “But if you’re a god, why doesn’t Guthix’ blessing protect me from you?”

“That would be a question for him, rather than me, don’t you think?”

Jahaan was not impressed with the non answer. Huffing, Sliske continued, “Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that, when Guthix’ blessing was bestowed upon you, I was not a god? Perhaps it was because I was the one that killed him, and that made me the exception to the rule? Or perhaps it simply slipped his mind? Even one of the most powerful gods in existence isn’t infallible, as we all well know.”

Jahaan licked the edges of his teeth. “Perhaps.”

It was the wound on his arm that made Jahaan realise that conversing with Sliske was only going to leave him exposed. The Mahjarrat’s words caused him to falter, and he was paying the price in crimson spilling out from the gash in his arm. Thankfully, Sliske didn’t pursue that conversation any further, and he didn’t try to ignite another one.

Jahaan brought his sword up to block a crushing strike from Sliske. He had stalled the attack, but watched as a wretched, stained grin started to split the Mahjarrat’s lips. Jahaan’s blade shivered under the brutality of Sliske’s compelling strength, the sword threatening to slip from his trembling hands. The World Guardian stumbled back, allowing Sliske’s blade to continue in its intended path. Jahaan leaned out of the way as much he could, but there wasn’t much he could do in the realms of evasion. Thankfully, the wound he attained wasn’t deep at all, but a long, thin slice across his chest. Torn fabric soaked up some of the blood, sticking his shirt to his skin with crimson glue.

Not letting this deter him, Jahaan collected himself as quickly as possible to once again go on the offence. He managed to get a rather clean slash across Sliske’s left thigh, though there wasn’t enough flesh left to draw blood. Sliske was almost completely skeletal now. Mahjarrat looked far more terrifying in their reverted form, a haunting visage not soon forgotten. But by now, Jahaan had gotten used to it. For him, it meant a weakened Sliske, and a weakened Sliske was an opportunity.

The stagger in Sliske’s step left an opening, one that allowed Jahaan’s blade to slice across Sliske’s left shoulder. The next strike missed, but only by a hair’s width, and it pushed the Mahjarrat deeper into the realms of the defensive. Now, the World Guardian’s strikes were coming thick and fast, not even allowing Sliske the time to ready his blade enough to block or parry. He was relentless, pushing Sliske backwards and knocking his blade down every time the Mahjarrat went to raise it. The cut to his left shoulder made wielding the blade with any strength or effective technique unmercifully difficult.

The look in Sliske’s eyes… it was hollow, a shell of the joviality that would usually dance in them. He was uncharactistically silent, too, lacking jibes and quips. No, Sliske looked more focused than he ever had been…

...and he looked scared.

Finally, Sliske managed to gain enough distance between himself and Jahaan to raise his blade in a proper deflection, but his grip was all wrong, and Jahaan could see it instantly. No doubt Sliske did too, but by then it was far too late.

The sword flew from Sliske’s hand and he stumbled backwards, retreating away from Jahaan’s blade before falling to the ground. Then, a flash of light; Jahaan realised that Sliske had blocked a killing blow with the shaft of the Staff of Armadyl.

_ Of course he wasn’t going to play fair, _ Jahaan scolded internally, having forgotten that the Staff was still at Sliske’s disposal. Though the momentary wideness of his eyes betrayed his surprise, it didn’t deter him for long, and he pressed down with all his weight onto Sliske. The Staff could not be cut through, however - whatever material the shaft was made from, it easily withstood the onslaught of elder rune blades.

Despite having only one working arm, the Mahjarrat was unfairly strong, gaining enough leverage to push Jahaan far enough to the side to roll out of the way and back to his feet. Shifting his grip on the Staff, Sliske swung it like a club, trying to regain some lost ground.

But it was in vain. Jahaan clipped Sliske’s already wounded arm with the edge of his blade, and Sliske cried out, just about refraining from clutching the gash in a desperate attempt to keep in control. Seeing an opening, Jahaan followed up with a lunge to Sliske’s stomach, but his opponent dodged out of the way just in time to avoid being skewered.

Then, Sliske pounced.

As Jahaan’s arm was outstretched, Sliske used the side of the Staff to knock Jahaan’s wrist to the side, causing his sword to fall past the balance line.

The opening was there.

Sliske slipped low, underneath the shadow of Jahaan’s blade. He swiftly readjusted his grip on the Staff, narrowed his eyes, lunged forwards and-

...by the time Jahaan knew what was happening, it was too late.

The bottom end of the Staff was embedded in his stomach.

Looming over him, Sliske’s expression grew dangerously wicked then, and he laughed, a grating scrape. “Oh Janny, you didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you?”

Jahaan couldn’t think to forumate words; his bloodshot eyes were transfixed on the haunting silhouette of Sliske. Even if he wanted to speak, he couldn’t through the blood gurgling in the back of his throat, escaping in fragments with every pained cough. His racing mind tried to comprehend regular thought and action, to fight beyond the agony, but it was futile - the only things Jahaan seemed to be able to focus on were those layered eyes of Sliske, and the Staff ripping through his insides.

Then, the Mahjarrat positioned the top end of the Staff towards the centre of his own stomach. “It’s as I told you before… you’re already mine…”

Suddenly, Sliske drove the Staff inside himself, his face contorting horrifically as he pulled it in deeper and held it firm.

Jahaan froze. At that moment, he could barely register the pain. Pain was ethereal, unreal. No, he was too transfixed on the reality of Sliske to focus on anything else.

For a moment that seemed boundless, the two were linked.

World Guardian and Praefectus Praetorio.

Jahaan Siad-Samak… and Sliske.

Then, the Staff began to shake of its own accord, and Sliske screamed. All the control and innate smugness he held only moments ago disappeared in a heartbeat, and the Mahjarrat’s eyes turned panicked. A bolt of energy cracked inside of Sliske as the Staff continued to tremble.

Something was wrong.

Then, the shaking stopped, and Jahaan watched as the life drained from Sliske’s once glowing eyes. Finally, the Mahjarrat slumped over on the Staff.

Jahaan just stood there, numb to the pain by now. His heart felt hollow, yet somehow… in some strange way, he began to feel more real than he ever had before. Like he was a drawing come to life, his edges sharp and solid, while Sliske’s blurred and faded.

Despite this, an eternity passed, and Jahaan felt more alone than he ever had in his entire life.

Suddenly, movement.

Sliske’s shoulders started shaking, growing in life and animation, and the Staff started trembling again in Jahaan’s grip. Sliske’s head shot up, his face a haunted portrait of blood and madness.

There was something different in his eyes. A confidence once absent, a hint of a sneer now returned, like he  _ knew _ . He knew something, he’d figured out the missing link to a puzzle Jahaan didn’t even know existed, and he began to laugh. His maniacal laughter shook Jahaan to the core, turning his blood cold.

Shadows began to wrap around Sliske, dark mist and clouds engulfing the Mahjarrat until all that could be seen was his cackling silhouette. With his last ounce of being, he uttered one simple phrase, a whisper and a hiss, that sent a chill down Jahaan’s spine.

Then, he was gone.

When the dust settled, all that was left in Sliske’s place was a stone statue with the Staff buried inside. It didn’t take long before the rock began to crack and crumble, exploding outwards. Jahaan shielded his face to protect himself. When he managed to open his eyes again, the statue was no more, and neither was Sliske.

With his last menial ounce of strength, Jahaan yanked the Staff from out of his stomach.

Then, he collapsed to the floor and willingly let the darkness take him.

_ “I loved you for more than your soul…” _

Then, the ground began to shake, slightly at first, but with an ever-increasing fury. All that could be heard in the chaos was a hollow voice…

_ “Come to me…” _

The world went black, blacker than the deepest chasm, darker than the darkest abyss. The silence inside was so thick, it was tangible, like the empty void was sentient and feeling, watching and waiting, listening and speaking.

When Jahaan awoke, he felt cold stone beneath his bloodied and bruised face. Prising his eyes open was a formidable task, not made easier by the relentless throbbing in his skull. He felt like his head was going to break apart from the inside out. Once he managed to keep his eyes open for longer than a fleeting second, he then found difficulty in adjusting to the white light floating around him, as if the world was replaced by nothing but a blank canvas.

The ringing in his ears took a little longer to subside, but when it did, he managed to pick out the echoing voice of Zaros, alongside another, unrecognisable voice.

“I am Zaros, firstborn of Mah,” Zaros announced, “I come to claim my birthright. I possess the core of Mah. In her absence in your pantheon, I ask to take my place.”

_ “No,” _ came the simple reply.

Jahaan realised it was the same hollow voice as the one that brought him to this mysterious plane. It was also the same voice that Jahaan heard in Sliske’s chamber, the one that brought the Stone of Jas to the Mahjarrat in the first place. It whispered and echoed, bellowed and sang all harmoniously, concurrently, as it formed the world around them. 

“I urge you, see reason,” Zaros implored, “With Mah dead your numbers are diminished, you need me to take her place!”

_ “No” _

“Why do you deny me?” as Zaros’ desperation grew, so too did the fire in his tone. “Look at what I have achieved, and imagine what I could achieve among your ranks. I have Mah's core. I am forged from her energy. How could you deny my claim?”

_ “A flame” _

_ “Can never be a star” _

_ “However bright” _

_ “It burns” _

_ “You are of Mah” _

_ “But you are not Mah” _

The voice spoke only in broken fragments, as if the Common Tongue was foreign to it, or it simply did not consider eloquence a worthwhile endeavour.

Zaros could no longer contain his fury. “NO! I will have my birthright!”

_ “No” _

“Then tell me why. What more must I do?” Zaros pleaded, his eyes heavy, features weary, as he struggled against the gravity of the being he was talking to.

_ “There is nothing” _

_ “We are creation” _

_ “We create life” _

_ “A power beyond you” _

Zaros countered, “But what of life I have created? The nihil? Nex?”

_ “Shadows” _

_ “Whispers” _

_ “False life” _

_ “To be as us” _

_ “Creation from nothing” _

_ “Only we have this power” _

“I have learned enough to know that there are no absolutes,” Zaros declared. “If I can create life, you  _ will  _ accept me as one of you.”

The voice was impassive yet commanding as it maintained,  _ “Impossible” _

“We shall see about that,” Zaros grumbled. “I will not be denied.”

_ “Leave” _

At this, Zaros teleported away, whether of his own volition or by the power of the voice, Jahaan was not sure. All he knew now was that he was alone, in a foreign dimension, planet or plane - of that he was unsure - and nothing separated him from the mighty presence surrounding him.

_ “Stand” _

Despite the vehement protests from his own body, Jahaan willed himself to comply with the order, scraping himself off the stone ground with every last ounce of fleeting strength he could muster. His frail and fragile bones fought back, as did gravity, pulling him back down to the floor. Eventually he willed himself to stand on rickety legs, swaying and staggering in place. When he looked down at himself, he saw the blood-soaked shirt he was wearing. Carefully, he peeled the sticky material away from his skin, retching as he saw the extent of the wound. Yet, the wound seemed still. By all accounts, he knew he should be bleeding out right about now, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t bleeding at all. Make no mistake, the wound was far from healed... yet it seemed frozen in time.

Unable to comprehend the nature of his injury, Jahaan instead forced his eyes to focus on the world around him, particularly at the amazing, terrifying creature beholding him.

Bathed in a neon blue glow was a gigantic, ten armed being shaped like the sun, and twice as imposing. It looked as if it was carved out of stone, with two yellow eyes on each arm and another on the centre of what could arguably be labelled its ‘chest’.

Clearing his throat, Jahaan tried his best to ignore the taste of iron in his mouth as he asked, “Where am I?”

_ “Here” _

Jahaan rubbed the back of his head, feeling a large bump. “I was hoping for a more specific answer.”

_ “You” _

_ “Are” _

_ “Here” _

Jahaan sighed. “Alright, let’s try a new question. Who are you?”

_ “Jas” _

Jahaan’s eyes grew wide, his chest suddenly incredibly heavy as a large lump formed in his throat. He suspected, but to have it confirmed? Rushing through his mind came a tidal wave of thoughts, questions and emotions, as here he stood, in the presence of an elder god, of the oldest elder god of them all, of the being that shaped the universe and created all life.

All he could say was, “Oh…”

_ “Explain,” _ Jas demanded, her tone neutral.

Jahaan queried, “Explain what?”

_ “My agent” _

_ “Explain its end” _

“Your agent?” Jahaan furrowed his brow. “You mean Sliske?"

_ “Yes” _

_ “Explain” _

Clearing his throat, Jahaan replied, “Sliske was trying to reignite a war between the gods. He… hurt a lot of people. I had to kill him."

Jas questioned,  _ “War?” _

This caused Jahaan to do a double take. The idea of explaining the concept of war to an elder god, the most powerful being in creation, was surreal to say the least. “Err… it's a conflict where large numbers of people kill each other for a single cause.”

_ “Why?” _

“That's probably too philosophical a question for… whatever this is.”

_ “Is it common?” _

“Yes.”

_ “You destroy yourselves” _

“More than we might like to think…” Jahaan answered, gravely. Then, his mind snapping back to the matter at hand, Jahaan inquired, “Why did you need Sliske to be your agent on Gielinor?”

_ “Gods” _

“Excuse me?”

_ “Yes” _

“No, I mean, can you tell me what you mean when you say ‘gods’?”

_ “The ones you call” _

_ “Gods” _

_ “Intrigue me” _

_ “They claim power” _

_ “They crave control” _

_ “They have neither” _

_ “Fascinating creations” _

_ “You are a question” _

_ “Mortal life is unexpected” _

_ “It is dangerous” _

_ “It shall end” _

_ “A new cycle” _

_ “Shall begin” _

The gravitas of Jas’ words struck Jahaan like a thunderbolt. “Wait!” he cried out. “You can't just destroy us all! There are good elements to mortal life! Like, erm, love and peace and hope?”

_ “Meaningless” _

_ “Why should life” _

_ “Continue” _

Jahaan was at a loss for words. “Because… because…”

_ “No words” _

_ “Prove by action” _

_ “I ask the sisters” _

Then, a choir erupted around Jahaan. All it sang was,  _ “We hear” _

Jas continued,  _ “Consensus” _

_ “Bik” _

_ “Wen” _

_ “Ful” _

_ “Agree” _

_ “Prove that life” _

_ “Has worth" _

_ “Or be” _

_ “No more” _

_ “Leave” _

“Wait!” Jahaan cut in, desperately. “You're Jas, you're THE elder god! I have so many questions!”

Jas responded,  _ “One” _

“One what? One question? I get one question?”

_ “Yes” _

Jahaan frowned. “Why do I only get one question?”

_ “Because” _

_ “Leave” _

Jahaan's eyes grew wide. “No, wait, that wasn't my question!”

But it was futile - the world around him was engulfed in white light, and he could feel his body flying away from Jas, away from this state of painless non-being… and crashing back towards reality.


	8. The Other Side

As soon as all the gods were spat out of the labyrinth and into the sweltering desert heat, Seren informed the gathered crowd about the fate of the Stone, and how the World Guardian and Sliske were left behind when it exploded. Though it was implied that they would have perished, Icthlarin knew otherwise, as did Death.

Zamorak and Saradomin left soon after, not caring to spend anymore time among one another’s company than they had to. The Stone - their prize for these tedious games - had been destroyed, therefore what was the point in remaining?

Armadyl decided to stay. When he noticed Icthlarin and Death hadn’t left, he didn’t want to either. Their presence meant there was still hope for Jahaan. He discussed with his avianse about the feasibility of tunneling down to provide the World Guardian with some assistance. Even though it was agreed that such a feat was impossible, Armadyl refused to leave until he saw either Jahaan or Sliske emerge from below. He prayed it was the former.

Seren stayed too, as did Zaros. If Sliske was the one to crawl out from the depths below, they wanted to be the first to greet him.

After what felt like an age had passed, Zaros suddenly vanished. There was no teleport spell cast - he just vanished. Naturally, panic and paranoia followed, Azzanadra nearly coming to blows with the elves that guarded Seren. He was convinced she had something to do with his disappearance, despite her affirmation that she knew nothing and there was no evidence suggesting otherwise. It took Armadyl and Icthlarin to quell the tension, but they barely managed it.

After only a few minutes, Zaros blinked back into the gathering like he’d returned from a ripple in existence, though considerably angrier than when he left. Seren tried to call out to him, but he simply stormed over to his entourage and teleported away with them, a dark cloud lingering where he left.

Not long after that, Jahaan returned to them.

Or at least, what was left of him.

Jahaan was conscious when he hit the ground, though that sharp return of his agony made him wish he wasn’t. What happened next, however, barely registered for him - the dirt and tears in his eyes, coupled with the deafening ringing in his ears, made focusing impossible. All he could concentrate on was the pain, hoping it would get to the stage where he would black out from it. At least then he wouldn’t have to endure it.

Instead, he felt hands grab at him, rolling him over. He didn’t realise just how much blood he was lying in. An involuntary, blood-curdling shriek escaped from his lips when hands tried to put pressure on the wound.

He felt a cool ice coat his abdomen, a subtle pressure attached to it - a female voice followed it. Seren had temporarily stopped the bleeding with a layer of crystal. Not that Jahaan noticed. All he felt was a nauseating jolt as he was lifted up into the air, head-spinning and limbs crying out in protest.

Seren told the others to follow her to Prifddinas, which to Jahaan was nothing more than an echoed mumble. Whenever he was going, he hoped a bed was on the other side of it. A nice, warm bed…  _ can’t I just sleep now? _

Fortunately for Jahaaan, he got his wish.

The spell was intended to comatose the World Guardian during the operation. Elven medicine was far superior to anything else on Gielinor, therefore Seren knew Jahaan’s best chances were with her. But there was a lot of blood lost already, alongside damage to the small intestine, some of which would have to be removed. It would take days to see if the procedure had worked, and Jahaan’s condition could deteriorate in a matter of hours if they had missed a source of internal infection. Herbal remedies were infused into him to keep his vitals stable and to provide nutrients.

Whenever Jahaan was awake, he wasn’t ever ‘there’. Some delirious mumbles, a glazed expression, and a refusal to eat. Then, he would fall asleep again, sometimes for the rest of the day.

The chief healer, Lady Heledd, estimated that he would be sitting up, talking and eating within five days. Eight had passed, and all he did was sleep. Often, Jahaan would talk in his sleep, a crude blend of languages, some that even Lady Heledd and the other healers didn’t recognise.

Heads turned whenever Icthlarin and Death visited the affirmed, and assurances had to be made that, if they were there to claim Jahaan’s soul, they wouldn’t be coming in through the front door.

While Icthlarin was unaware of when Jahaan would pass, he knew that Death held that information. Death knew the ‘when’ and ‘how’ for every being on Gielinor. Of course, Death never parted with this information, not even to Icthlarin. Doing so would ‘upset the balance’, he would always say. Icthlarin couldn’t resent his friend for doing his duties, but hated not knowing if the next time he saw Jahaan would be in the Underworld. Not that Jahaan wanted to go through the Underworld, or to an afterlife. Icthlarin knew that, if the time came, he would have to respect the World Guardian’s decision.

Jahaan was never awake for their visits, nor was he awake for the handful of times Armadyl dropped in on him. The avianse deity had diligently stayed at his bedside, sometimes for hours on end, never getting anything more than a delirious groan from the World Guardian. Despite trusting the elves and elven medicine, Armadyl invited Gaw’kara to join him in a visit to Jahaan’s hospital room, just to see if he had a different take on Jahaan’s condition. Unfortunately, he didn’t, reaffirming what Lady Heledd and the elven healers had told them: time will tell.

When Jahaan slept for thirty-six hours straight, having to be kept alive by the constant chanting of an air spell to assist his breathing, there was the fear he might never wake up.

Until he did.

Groggily, Jahaan dragged himself back into consciousness, blinking away the haziness of his vision and trying to sharpen up the world around him. It was bright, very bright. Everything seemed to shine, like the walls were made of pure cyan crystal. It reminded him of Prifddinas, or what little he had seen of it.

_ Has Icthlarin accidentally taken me to Seren’s afterlife? _ Jahaan thought to himself, though reconsidered the likelihood after trying to sit up slightly and feeling a searing pain in his abdomen.  _ Surely the afterlife doesn’t come with lasting agony? _

Then, he heard a voice beside him, “Don’t move. I’ll get Lady Heledd.”

A brush of turquoise flittered past his vision. Soon after, a tall elven woman with curled blonde hair tied into a high bob entered the room. Her gown was white and pristine with a turquoise diamond emblazoned on it.

“Where am I?” Jahaan hoarsely whispered, his croaky throat coughing with the effort. A straw was forced near his mouth, and Jahaan hungrily sipped down the contents like he hadn’t drunk in months. More coughing followed.

“Steady on, love,” the pointy-eared healer cooed. Her warm voice was reassurance incarnate. “You’re alright now. Can you tell me your name?”

“Jahaan,” the World Guardian replied, needing to take a deep breath as he continued, “Jahaan Siad-Samak.”

“Alrighty Jahaan, and can you tell me your age?” Lady Heledd asked with a soft tone you’d usually use when addressing a child. In fact, she continued on with about a dozen more questions Jahaan deemed as asinine, his repeating inquiries as to his location ignored every time.

“I don’t understand why you won’t tell me what’s going on,” Jahaan huffed, feeling slightly more invigorated now. Not enough to move, no. But enough to sound slightly irate. “Where am I?”

Setting down the notebook she’d been penning his answers into, alongside other comments and remarks, Lady Heledd perched on the bed beside Jahaan with the friendliest smile he’d ever seen. She probably gave this smile to everyone, but Jahaan wanted to think that it was reserved purely for him. “You’re in Prifddinas, love, in hospital. You’ve been out a while. I needed to ask all those questions to make sure you were fully with me this time.”   
“Fully with you?” Jahaan queried at the odd turn of phrase. “What do you mean? How long was I out?”

“Just under two weeks, dear,” Lady Heledd replied. “You’ve been awake before now, but you weren’t all that responsive, talking slightly delirious and all that.”

Jahaan tried to run his mind back over the last two weeks, but came up empty. He remembered nothing from that period. He forced his mind back further, but it was a mighty effort.

_ The labyrinth, the fight, the stab, _ he winced at the last one, tying it to the ache in his stomach. Then, his eyes widened. “Jas!”

“Steady on, dear,” Lady Heledd held him down as he bolted up in bed, the World Guardian instantly regretting the action, crumbling back into the bedsheets with an extended groan. “What’s this ‘Jas’ anyhow?”

Panting from the exertion, Jahaan said, “I need to talk to Seren.”

“World Guardian!” Seren cheerily greeted when she glided into the room. “I’m glad to see you compos-mentis.”

There were pressing concerns on Jahaan’s mind, one’s he wanted to share urgently before they were forgotten in the depths of his memory. But naturally, he first wanted to say, “Thank you for everything you have done for me, Seren. It sounds like you saved my life.”

“My elves saved your life,” Seren corrected, humbly. “It was touch and go at some points, I must say. But it’s a relief you pulled through. Your death would have been a loss for all of Gielinor, after all you have done. What happened down there, after the Stone exploded?”

Briefly, Jahaan informed Seren about the battle with Sliske and how the drain on the Mahjarrat’s energy weakened him severely. He told of how he was stabbed by the Staff of Armadyl, and how Sliske stabbed himself too, no doubt trying to forcefully siphon Jahaan’s soul into himself. But, for some reason, the process failed, and Sliske turned to stone.

Then, he finally arrived at what he needed to tell her the most, about his meeting with Jas.

After the tale ended, the elven deity was rendered speechless.

Jahaan had to prompt her, “What should be done?”

Seren gulped. “I… am not quite sure. I am not surprised at my brother’s attempt to ascend to elder godhood, and I am glad he was denied. But Jas said that mortal life has to prove it is worthy of existing, or the Great Revision will commence again… how do we prove ourselves to a being that considers mortal life a mistake? How can we...”

Her tone became faint, trailing off towards the end. To Seren, she had been burdened with the task of ensuring all life in the universe continued. To Jahaan, he’d relieved himself of the issue for now. No doubt it would weigh on him at a later date, but for now, tiredness was crawling back into his mind, his eyes suddenly feeling a whole lot heavier.

After a few minutes of solemn contemplation, Seren noticed her audience was waning. “I shall leave you to rest. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll be up for an audience? Icthlarin has been visiting repeatedly, much to the disconcertion of the elves.”

“I’d like that,” Jahaan said with a faint smile before allowing his eyes to close.

When Icthlarin walked through into his room the next day, Jahaan was finally sitting up and managing to get some soup down him. Solid foods were still too much of a struggle, and his appetite was far from its usual self, but this soup was  _ divine _ . Never had hospital food tasted so damn  _ good _ . Maybe it was because he hadn’t eaten much of anything in a fortnight, but this soup was one of the finest culinary delights he had ever had the pleasure of enjoying. This was a hill he was prepared to die on.

“Icthlarin!” Jahaan grinned, the soup’s warmth and happiness increasing his mood tenfold. “I must be the only human alive who’s glad to see the god of the underworld.”

“It is good to see you here, alive and  _ almost _ in one piece, my friend,” Icthlarin replied, a broad smile that revealed his large canines. It soon faded, however, as he said, “I… apologise for the state I was in during Sliske’s labyrinth. I am embarrassed you had to see me like that.”

“Don’t apologise,” Jahaan fervently finished up the last of the soup. “I’m just glad you’re back to your usual self now. Can’t say the same for me though. Lady Heledd - the chief healer here - thinks I’m going to be bedridden for a while.”

Jahaan didn’t frankly care, as long as he had his soup.

Naturally, Icthlarin was curious as to what occurred after he was ejected from the maze, and Jahaan regaled him with the tale in full. Afterwards, there was a prevailing question on Jahaan’s mind he had to ask, even if the subject loomed over his good mood like rain clouds threatening to burst.

Mentally preparing himself, he breathed deeply before asking, “How was Ozan when you saw him?”

Icthlarin furrowed his brow. “Ozan?”

“You remember Ozan, don’t you?” Jahaan checked, slightly puzzled. The two had met on adventures in the past, and Icthlarin never forgot a face. “He was one of Sliske’s wights. He’d have passed onto the afterlife after Sliske died, right?”

“I remember Ozan well, but he never passed into my domain.”

For a brief moment, Jahaan could have sworn he felt his heart stop. “C-Can you explain that?”

“I… I do not know how,” Icthlarin looked as concerned as he did confused. “If Ozan was bound to Sliske as a wight, Sliske’s death should have released Ozan’s soul. That is the natural order of things.”

Jahaan didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to dare get his hopes up. The pain of having them crash down around him might finish him off for good. And yet, he couldn’t help himself. “Are you saying… Ozan’s alive?”

“I can only confirm that he is not dead,” Icthlarin spoke slowly, like he was calculating equations in his mind, ones that were written in a language he couldn’t quite decipher. “At least, not fully. Perhaps he is still trapped as a wight, but that should not be possible. He should-”

He was interrupted by a tight hand squeezing his own. Jahaan bolted upright in bed, wide eyes showing more signs of life than they ever had. “Can you find him for me? P-Please, I… I need to see him, please can you try to find him?”

Features softening, Icthlarin rested a paw on top of Jahaan’s hand. “I shall try, my friend.”

When Icthlarin shut the door to Jahaan’s room, he leant back against the firm mahogany, his thoughts trying to catch up with him. Indeed, Ozan was still on this world - something the god of the underworld just  _ knew _ . But how? Icthlarin never saw the man as a wight, but if indeed that was the fate that befell him, Sliske’s death would have released the man into his domain.

Something was off. Something was also off about Jahaan, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was just a smell around him, something about his usual scent that didn’t match.

Rubbing his temples, Icthlarin resolved to sleep on the matter, then locate Ozan in the morning. Perhaps by talking to him, Ozan could shed some light on the situation.

The next evening, Jahaan heard the swish of a teleport spell land outside his door and the faint mumblings of Icthlarin’s voice. When he spoke to the elves, he spoke in elven, so Jahaan had no idea what was being said.

But Jahaan didn’t care what they were talking about. All he could think about was if Icthlarin had brought company with him.

Scrambling to sit up in bed, Jahaan’s heart beat faster and faster, making a home inside of his throat. The anticipation was killing him.

Then, after one twist of the door handle, his heart threatened to burst.

Ozan walked through the door.

He was still a ghostly green, translucent in some places, with robes that seemed decayed and withered. In fact, he looked exactly the same as he did in Sliske’s chasm, though thankfully without the damage to his legs that Jahaan had inflicted.

Both men just stared at each other in disbelief for too long, debating the chance that the other was a mirage.

Eventually though, Ozan plucked up the courage to remark, “Wow, finally someone that looks worse than me.”

Jahaan practically choked on his own tears as he started to laugh. Just to hear Ozan’s voice again made all of this worth it. Every single memory he’d be forced to relive, every single injury he’d have to endure for the rest of his life… Ozan made it all worth it.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Jahaan stammered through the tears, desperately trying to wipe them away with his bedsheets.

“Neither can I,” Ozan laughed, nervously scratching the back of his head. He was never good with hospitals - they freaked him out, but he tried his best to hide that fact through a broad smirk. “Now, you aren’t going to break if I hug you, right?”

Grinning, Jahaan beckoned him over. But as soon as Ozan embraced him, the man recoiled suddenly, inhaling a sharp breath.

Jahaan froze. “Are you okay, Ozan?”

Gulping, Ozan’s hand slowly moved to gently rub his neck, taking a tentative step backwards. “Didn’t you feel that?”

“Feel… what?”

“That… shock,” Ozan cleared his throat, exhaling a shaky breath. Shaking his head, he tried to chuckle, “Maybe it’s the side effects of being dead?”

Jahaan forced a faint laugh, but he was unnerved by the scared look in his friend’s eyes.

The two talked for ages long after that, but Ozan sat firmly on the other side of the room, as far away from Jahaan as possible. For a man with no sense of personal space, it was rather concerning, but Jahaan refused to think too much about it. He had his best friend back - nothing else mattered.

“I just woke up back at the Barrows,” Ozan recalled. “I didn’t have that grip on me anymore - I had control again, free will. The others were there too, Ahrim and Dharok… all of them felt the same way. Sliske’s hold over us had gone.”

Jahaan replied, “I’m just confused… when Sliske died, you should have passed on, not be trapped on Gielinor.”

“Icthlarin said the same thing when he found us,” Ozan informed. “Said he had no idea why we were still here. He offered to take our souls to the afterlife though, if we wanted it, since we were already dead and all. Some of the Brothers are considering it.”

“What about you?” Jahaan tried not to sound nervous.

Fortunately, Ozan’s grin reassured him. “Oh I’m not going anywhere. A world without Ozan would be a very dreary place indeed.”

More guests visited him throughout his weeks in bedrest, but Ozan was the regular, bringing him books and sneaking Coal in to visit him when the healers weren’t looking. The man had gone back to the Wizards’ Tower and received a tearful reunion with Ariane, which warmed Jahaan’s heart. He and Ariane had shared their differences in the past, but she made Ozan happy, and that was all that mattered.

It took severe persuading from the city’s elders, but eventually, upon Seren’s insistence, Azzanadra was allowed to visit Jahaan. Not that the Mahjarrat was pleased at all with having to enter Seren's domain. In fact, he loathed the idea. But he felt a duty to Jahaan to at least visit him once. If the World Guardian can fight alongside him in a Mahjarrat Ritual, this was the least he could do.

But he didn’t stay long. In fact, as soon as he entered Jahaan's hospital room, he wanted to leave. Something was not quite right. There was a feeling, a pull, a familiar presence lingering… like a ghost trapped within the walls.

Azzanadra listened intently to the story of what happened after he was cast out of the labyrinth, trying not to let his stony features betray the trepidation he felt.

One part of the story stuck with him, however, threatening to bring his darkest theories to light.

“Which end of the Staff did he stab you with, again?” Azzanadra checked, biting on the inside of his cheek

“The bottom part,” Jahaan replied, “Thank the gods he did. If I got stabbed with those wing things on the top, well…”

It was as Azzanadra feared. He had seen the work of the Staff, the Siphon, first hand before. Memories of the Empty Throne Room and Zaros’ assassination by the Staff were still fresh in his mind, just like it happened yesterday. Zamorak had used the Staff to siphon power from Zaros into himself. Sliske must have intended to use it to extract Jahaan’s soul, but instead he made a fatal error.

Wahisietel did not want to visit Jahaan.

Jahaan understood. The wound was too fresh; he would not want an audience with the man who was effectively his half-brother’s murderer. If Wahisietel would accept him, Jahaan would visit him when he could, explain what happened, and apologise for the role he was forced to play.

It would take time, Azzanadra had told him. The Mahjarrat had visited Wahisietel in his Nardah home to find the place a wreck, and Wahisietel himself was in no fit state.

“Can you tell him...” Jahaan started to ask Azzanadra, but was unsure how to sum up everything he wanted to say in just one sentence. “Just… can you tell him I’d like to see him at some point, and that I’m sorry.”

The words would sound hollow to Wahisietel. ‘Sorry’? Would ‘sorry’ bring back the only family he’d had for generations?

Jahaan quite enjoyed his time confined to bed rest. For once in gods knew how long, there was no weight inside his chest, no looming shadow of Sliske to cloud over his mind. Responsibilities could take a back seat. He had earned his repose.

Of course, there was the issue of the elder gods’ ultimatum to prove that life was worth existing, but Jahaan decided he’d cross that bridge when he had to. In fact, from how he felt right now, Jahaan was rather content with never crossing that bridge. He’d been Gielinor’s hero enough for one lifetime - someone else could take over the role for all he minded.

Yes, the idea of retirement seemed pretty good right now…

...until Jahaan heard a disembodied laugh rattle through his mind.


	9. Epilogue

Jahaan dangled his fishing rod down into the depths of the wondrous Prifddinas waterfall. The waterfall was sky-blue and magical, tumbling down over the mountain and splashing into the lake below. The pool down there was so clear it perfectly reflected the brilliant white clouds above like an impeccable mirror image of the sky. The falls twinkled as sunlight caught the crystal walls of the surrounding buildings and flashed their brilliance into the lake.

The air tasted fresh on Jahaan’s tongue, as nourishing as a glass of iced water. You could smell the purity of the atmosphere, of a little haven attuned with nature, living harmoniously around its elven neighbours.

The crashing cascade of the water was a low hum beneath him, a pleasant swish of waves lapping against the rocks. He heard the sound of children playing in the lake below, giggling and laughing in tune with the sweet chirping of birds.

Perched on his little wooden bridge, Jahaan took in the calming atmosphere with a contented sigh. This was the place he spent most of his days now, ever since the town council agreed to gift him a little house in the Meilyr district, a small token of appreciation for his services to Gielinor. It had been about three months since he was discharged from the hospital, and he hadn’t left Prifddinas since. He didn’t want to.

Jahaan worked part-time in the bait-and-tackle shop in the Meilyr district, and supplemented his income by fishing. They had strange fish in these waters, all making for a strange delicacy. It was an acquired taste at first, the urchins that he caught and cooked, but he slowly got used to them. Once he learned he could put them in soup - creating the best delicacy ever, hill still firmly there to die on - it was a different matter entirely. Lady Heledd had been kind enough to share the recipe with him.

Ozan settled down beside the bridge, still keeping a slight distance between himself and Jahaan. “Hey, Ariane’s finished setting up the picnic if you wanna come join us?”

Ozan was adapting to life as a wight quicker than anticipated. The inability to eat grated on him the most, and his appearance would occasionally frighten the elven children. It took awhile to convince the locals he wasn’t a zombie. Said locals referred to him as  _ ‘marwwr’ _ , not really a term of endearment but a factual statement that, yes, he was a deadman. Ozan got used to it though, taking it in good humour.

He and Ariane didn’t exactly want to relocate to Prifddinas, but ended up doing so anyway. Unfortunately, west of the River Lum, those of the undead variety weren’t particularly welcome in towns and cities. At least in Prifddinas, Ozan had Jahaan, the town elders, and even Seren to vouch for him. As for Ariane, thanks to teleportation, it was easy to commute to the Wizards’ Tower for work. There, she and a handful of other wizards were starting to look into a cure for Ozan’s affliction, but hopes weren’t high as of yet.

Coal wasn’t a big fan of Prifddinas once he figured out that crystal was too tough to eat, and most of the structures and tools in the city were made out of such a material.

Nudging closer to Jahaan, but never too close, Ozan motioned with his head to the female fisherman perched on the rock opposite Jahaan, the one with brunette bangs who’s eyes kept flicking in the World Guardian’s direction.

“Psst,” Ozan whispered with a mischievous smirk. “I think she’s checking you out.”

Jahaan looked over at the elf in question, but she quickly glanced away with a sheepish smile.

Turning back to Ozan, Jahaan grinned and said, “Drop dead Ozan.”

“Already did, Jahaan.”

“Encore.”

Then there was a laugh, but it wasn’t Jahaan’s or Ozan’s, and it echoed throughout Jahaan’s mind. He shook his head to clear it.

This had happened before, many times. Jahaan had a theory, but he shared it with no-one. After all, a pleasant lie was far better than an unpleasant truth.

What he didn’t know was, some of those around him had the exact same theory.

There were differences he noticed ever since he woke up inside that Prifddinas hospital bed. He could sense auras around people, dark shadows that lurked around their being. Sometimes the world had slightly muted colours, like he was unconsciously slipping into the Shadow Realm, something he never intended to do again.

But the main difference he noticed was the voice inside his head, a new voice that was certainly not his own.

It was there during the menial and mundane, there during the trials and tribulations. It talked to him, and talked AT him. Reassuring occasionally, mocking often, but not necessarily at his expense. It commented on things, laughed at other people’s jokes.

Sometimes it even sang.

At first it disturbed him, but as he became more and more used to its presence, it stopped bothering him so much. Sometimes, when it was quiet, Jahaan missed it.

But late at night, when he tried to go to sleep, the familiar laugh would always return...

...and when no-one was around…

...Jahaan would laugh back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all that have read and reviewed Of Gods and Men. This story is at a close :)  
> However, I love Jahaan too much to let him go here, so I may write sequels in the form of one-shot "quests", or perhaps prequels with Ozan and Jahaan - I really don't know right now :) But the longform story is over; a line has been drawn under Of Gods and Men :)  
> Once again, thank you all so, so much! :D

**Author's Note:**

> As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.


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